


The Chemicals Between Us

by SlimReaper



Series: The Chemicals-verse [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Ambulon is a badass and deserves more love, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Character, Awkward Sexual Situations, Body Worship, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtship Fight, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Helplessness, I am not kidding about the fluff, Imprinting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Morning After, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Praise Kink, Public Claiming, Robot Sex, Rodimus actually IS helpful!, Self-Hatred, Sex Toys, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Voice Kink, consent is important, dratchet - Freeform, iopele, sensitive medic hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 88,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/pseuds/SlimReaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet doesn't realize he's in heat until it's far too late to do anything but give in to the coding and wait to see who wins the right to claim him in the mating fight. Drift isn't about to let anyone else have his medic.</p><p>In summary: Drift vs. damn near everyone. </p><p>(not related to the Say Yes series in any way)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ratchet and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as the story progresses to avoid spoilers.

The mecha around Ratchet were acting… strange.

He tried his best to ignore the instant attention he garnered when he walked into Swerve's bar. Damn it, he was  _not_  in the mood for this slag right now, so he glared at anyone foolish enough to meet his optics and sat down at his regular place at the bar. He knocked on the top with a little more force than normal, signaling Swerve to give him his usual: triple-filtered high-grade in a tall glass with no embellishments.

Swerve immediately put a cube in front of him, so fast he must've already had it waiting.

Ratchet stared at it for a moment before shoving it right back. He was very certain that he had never ordered an additive-rich blend of coolant and high-energy mid-grade in this bar. That wasn't a drink, that was a medical ration, something he'd prescribe for a patient recovering from severe stress to their systems. He had to smell this slag all the damn time in the medbay and being reminded of that place right now was enough to make both fists clench. "You know what I want and it ain't this," he told the bartender.

Swerve fidgeted a little but slid it back in front of him. "Trust me, doc, you don't want your usual right now, it'll only make it all worse. This is what you need, promise," he said nervously.

"Don't tell me what I need." Ratchet had been looking forward to drowning his frustration in a glass of high-grade all day and fragging  _recovery blend_  wasn't gonna cut it. He pushed the cube at the bartender and glared when Swerve reached out with the clear intention of giving it right back to him again. "Put that swill in front of me one more time and you'll be the one choking it down," he growled. "Cube and all."

The little bartender looked like he really, truly wanted to argue, and the only thing he wanted more than that was to run away. Finally he picked up the cube and set it aside, and while it was still within Ratchet's reach, the medic could pretend it was gone. Swerve reluctantly gave him his usual this time and Ratchet almost snatched it from him. Swerve squeaked and yanked his hand back, very nearly spilling the high-grade everywhere in his eagerness not to touch the medic, and Ratchet felt like hitting him. Despite that, Swerve didn't walk off. The damn mech was  _hovering_  and Ratchet didn't like it. "Everything trying my damn patience today," Ratchet growled, glaring at Swerve until he edged back a step, but he still didn't go away.

Ratchet pointedly ignored him and stared down into his glass like it held the answer to all his problems. This entire day had been slag from start to finish. He'd woken up with a churning tank and a processor ache, as though he'd gone to berth overcharged even though he hadn't had a drop of engex in days. He'd taken a dose of painkillers and skipped his morning fuel, unable to face it with his tank so unsettled and his joints aching. Frag, he must've gotten some bad energon when he'd fueled last night. He made a mental note to mention it to Perceptor so he could test their supplies for contamination, then dragged his miserable aft to duty in the medbay.

If he thought fuel sickness was going to be the worst of his day, he was sadly mistaken. Some practical joker had apparently snuck in and pranked every single piece of equipment in the medbay. Everything Ratchet touched malfunctioned on him, and even the troubleshooting protocols he'd run–repeatedly!–had all shown that nothing was wrong with them, which had to be wrong because nothing was working right. This kind of prank was stupid and dangerous and it meant that everything had to be recalibrated, and what if someone needed medical attention before they were done?

First Aid had volunteered to take care of all of the necessary repairs and Ratchet, his processor still throbbing despite the painkiller, had agreed against his better judgment. He was the Chief Medical Officer, he was responsible for all of this gear, but First Aid had pointed out it was a very slow day in the medbay and after all, this kind of thing was important for a CMO in training to learn. It was a good point and it helped to shut down Ratchet's protests.

But come to think of it, First Aid had been acting funny all shift, too. He kept moving Ratchet's things–oh, he said he wasn't, but he and Ratchet were the only ones in the medbay and Ratchet couldn't seem to find  _anything_. It had to be First Aid fragging up the equipment and moving things around! It wasn't a funny practical joke at the best of times, and to continue after being caught was just pathetic–two things Ratchet hadn't hesitated to tell him.

First Aid had persisted with his protestations of innocence, and Ratchet's things kept moving, and nothing in the entire damn medbay fragging  _worked right,_ and there weren't even any patients to distract him from his frustration with his second.

In fact, First Aid had driven him up the wall all shift. The junior doctor kept muttering nonsense at him, or offering to take over even the simplest tasks from Ratchet, or asking him repeatedly if he was sure he didn't want to take the rest of his duty shift off to relax, or staring at him behind his back. Ratchet had never actually managed to catch him staring, but he could feel it. When he'd found the other doctor actually trying to slip a dose of a mild sedative into his midday fuel, Ratchet had had enough and unleashed the full force of his temper on him. First Aid managed to dodge the cube Ratchet had flung at him, but he couldn't dodge Ratchet's shouts. First Aid had kept well out of his way after that blistering dressing-down, but the staring–and the equipment malfunctions, and the lost objects, and the fragging _muttering_ –had continued.

So Ratchet was truly not in the mood for Swerve trying to deny him this drink. The medic lifted his glass and tossed the contents back in one long swig–

–and nearly spewed it all right back up again. His throat burned and his tanks churned with instant nausea, even worse than this morning. Heat rolled up through his internal mechanisms, flashing out in a wave all the way to his fingertips before it finally dissipated.

This wasn't bad fuel. What the  _frag_  had Swerve put in this damned drink?

He remembered the look on First Aid's face when he'd caught him trying to slip that sedative into his midday ration and Ratchet shot a suspicious look around the bar now. The other medic was nowhere in sight, but that didn't mean he hadn't bribed Swerve to succeed where he'd failed. Coughing and choking, he reached across the bar to grab the little bartender, intending to beat some answers out of him.

Swerve practically fell over to evade his hands. "Hey hey hey now, whoa there, doc, um, maybe you shouldn't be touching anyone just yet, huh? And especially not me because it's not like I wouldn't like to, I would totally like to but I think everyone knows I'm not in the running, not against everyone else on this ship, and speaking of all the other mecha around here, maybe you want to be somewhere that's not so, ah, full of breakable things right now? Cuz I think we both know what's about to happen and it would probably be a really good idea for it to happen in a different– _hey!_ "

This last was in response to Ratchet losing his patience with the annoying mech's babbling and grabbing at him again. This time Swerve really did fall over backwards to avoid him. "C'mon, doc, you trying to get me killed?" the minibot squeaked, scrambling well out of reach before he got back to his feet.

"Like to do it myself, actually," Ratchet growled, wishing the little fragger would  _hold still_  so he could get his hands around his neck.

But that spiked drink was really making him feel strange now. One glass of high-grade shouldn't make his processor swim like this or his optical input go fuzzy around the edges, not even on an empty tank. His equilibrium still seemed fine–he had no trouble getting to his feet and making his way toward the door–but his tanks cramped and his plating itched and burned with irritation.

The medbay… he needed to get to the medbay. Right now he couldn't afford to care that First Aid had been acting like he wanted to take over as Chief Medical Officer by shoving Ratchet out of the job himself. He needed to find out what the hell Swerve had put in his drink because he was reacting to it badly, and First Aid had by frag  _better_  have finished recalibrating everything. His armor throbbed and his EM field crackled out of control, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop venting much too fast.  _It would be just like these fragging jokers to give me something I'm allergic to_ , he growled to himself as another wave of heat scalded his internals. A systems flush would put him right, but damn it all, spending the last twelve hours confined to the medbay had felt like torture today, and he was  _not_  thrilled to be going back.

His expression must've been as thunderous as his temper because no one blocked his way to the exit. In fact, a wide path opened for him, every single mech standing aside as he stalked past.

And all of them were  _staring_  at him.

Was the whole damn bar in on First Aid and Swerve's prank? Ratchet fought to hold back a snarl and wasn't the slightest bit successful. He could feel their gazes crawling over his plating but not a single one of them met his optics.  _Brave enough to poison me but too cowardly to face my wrath,_  he thought, glaring at all of them as he finally reached the door.

Just wait 'til the next time one of these glitched-out slaggers got hurt. He'd show them what happened to mecha who were stupid enough to prank the medic. It wouldn't be the first time some stupid fragger had woken up in Ratchet's medbay with their hands welded to their own aft.

The bar door didn't close behind him after he passed through it, though. Ratchet glanced back and his disquiet grew.

Some of them had followed him.

A  _lot_  of them had followed him.

Ratchet bared his denta and snarled again, ready to tear the Primusdamned hands off anyone who dared to touch him, and deep in his rapidly-fogging brain, part of him was shocked at his behavior. Snarling like an animal–what the hell was wrong with him? But the rest of him was too busy feeling darkly satisfied when they backed off to pay attention to that small voice, and he spun around and marched down the hall without looking back again.

He didn't need to look. He could  _feel_  them following.

Another part of him was strangely glad about that. The rest of him did not give a sweet damn  _what_  they did. They could all drown themselves in the oil reservoir for all he cared, so long as they  _left him the frag alone_  while they did it.

Several more strange things happened in rapid succession. He passed Chromedome and Rewind's hab suite just as their door opened and the minibot stepped out. The medic had barely an instant to recognize him before Rewind looked at Ratchet–and everyone  _following_  Ratchet–and squeaked in alarm. Chromedome reached out and pulled his conjunx endura straight back into their suite, snatching him completely off his pedes and slamming their door behind them like he thought Ratchet was going to attack the little archivist or something.

Weird.

Ratchet turned a corner and came face to lack-of-face with Whirl. The rotormech took one look at Ratchet and his optic flared with distress. Half a second later, he flung himself past Ratchet and plowed straight into Ultra Magnus–wait, when had Ultra Magnus started following Ratchet? He hadn't been in Swerve's–the Duly Appointed Encorcer of the Tyrest Accord did  _not_ frequent bars. Ratchet didn't have time to wonder about that before Whirl slammed a clenched claw into Magnus' chestplate. "I just assaulted an officer. Arrest me!" Whirl demanded as he pummeled the SIC with all his strength.

Ultra Magnus hardly seemed to notice. In fact, he looked more than a little dazed. "I don't… a warning, perhaps… under the circumstances…" he began, but Whirl cut him off by punching him right in the mouth.

" _Arrest–_ " punch " _–me–_ " punch " _–right–_ " punch " _–now!_ "

_Crack._

This time Ultra Magnus caught Whirl's claw in one enormous hand and  _squeezed_. The rotormech yelped but his field broadcast relief loud and clear as the law enforcer dragged him toward the brig. "Good luck, doc!" Whirl shouted over his shoulder.

Ratchet didn't bother answering. In fact, he couldn't remember if that kind of thing was something he should be concerned about or not. He kept walking as the pair departed, but he'd forgotten where he was going now. It didn't seem to matter much, anyway. His pedes knew where they were going and he didn't try to figure it out. That peculiar fog had pretty much taken over his processor at this point and he couldn't care much about that, either. His plating still felt strange, but instead of itching and burning, now it tingled and felt too tight in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

He reached the large portal to the main hangar bay and paused as it slid open. Ratchet wasn't sure, but he didn't think this was where he'd originally set out to go. Still, it felt right. Something about being in an open space, with room enough to hold lots of mecha… yes, that was what he'd been looking for. This was where he was supposed to be. There was a crate against the far bulkhead that looked perfect to sit on and wait for… something. Ratchet stepped inside–

–and would've walked right into Tailgate if Cyclonus hadn't shoved the little bot aside at the last second. Tailgate fell hard and looked up at his roommate with hurt writ large in his field. "What was that for?" he said, starting to get up.

Cyclonus shoved him down again. " _Stay put,_ " he hissed, his optics glued to Ratchet as the medic walked by them without so much as a glance.

But Tailgate had gone almost rigid. He vented in deeply, staring at Ratchet, every inch of his little frame quivering. "No, I need to follow him," he said, his words coming out slurred.

Cyclonus grabbed his shoulder hard enough that Ratchet heard the metal creak. "You don't stand a chance," he bit out, finally dragging his optics from the medic to the crowd behind him. "That isn't for you." His already-deep voice dropped an octave, dripping with intent. "It's for  _me._ "

"Don't stand a chance at what?" Tailgate asked as he tried to get up once more and was pushed back down again. He struggled uselessly against the much larger mech's hold. "What's for you and not me? Let go, Cyclonus, I need to–"

The purple warrior growled and pinned him right back to the deck with both hands on his large shoulder kibble. "Stop it! Are you  _trying_  to get killed?" he snapped, but Tailgate still struggled and finally Cyclonus swore and picked him up. "You are making me miss this and you  _will_ make it up to me," he growled, and shoved through the gathered mecha to carry the still-confused minibot out of the hangar.

Normally he wouldn't have stood by and watched Cyclonus overpower the sweet little mech like that, but just now, Ratchet didn't seem to have the ability to care.

In fact, by the time Ratchet reached that crate and sat down, his processor was too hazy and warm to worry about much of anything. Nothing mattered but the heat pulsing through his frame, the gazes of the mecha surrounding him, the ache settling protoform-deep in his struts.

Instinct told him that this discomfort wouldn't last long. Everything would be all right soon.

.

Red Alert burst onto the bridge, nearly frantic. "We need backup in the main hangar! Dispatch a team in full containment gear!"

Drift spun in the captain's chair, already checking his HUD. No alarms had sounded from the brig and there was no evidence of an attack. "What's going on?" he demanded, rising to his feet and wishing that whatever had happened could've waited another twenty fragging minutes so he could've foisted it off on Ultra Magnus. "Why full containment gear? Is it some kind of chemical or biological contaminant?"

"You could say that," Red Alert groaned as he rushed to Drift's side and pulled up video footage of the hangar. "See for yourself."

Drift's jaw dropped at the sight that met his optics. It looked like half the crew of the  _Lost Light_  was brawling down there. A blue blur flew across the screen and he thought he recognized Skids before the amnesiac fighter dove right back into the crowd. Gears and Hound, who Drift knew damn well were very good friends, were throttling each other like they wanted to tear off limbs. Several mecha were lying motionless on the deck, their injuries completely ignored by their crewmates. The swordsmech started to open a line to Rodimus to alert the captain to the situation–

–and then spotted the red-and-gold speedster right in the middle of the melee, trading punches with… holy Primus, was the captain actually fighting  _Fortress Maximus?_

"What in the name of the Matrix," Drift whispered, but Red was already answering him.

"Ratchet's gone into heat down there," the Chief of Security said. "I sealed off the ventilation system, but we have to–"

But the rest of the sentence was lost in the squeal of tires and the roar of a powerful speedster engine racing off at full speed.

Drift was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I picture going into heat as the worst PMS in the history of history. You ever see a cat going into heat get approached by a tom before she's ready? THAT TOM GETS HIS SHIT ALL FUCKED UP.
> 
> And there is a reason why he's called the Hatchet.


	2. Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know with the chapter titles, don't judge me.

Drift pushed his engine hard, speeding through the  _Lost Light's_  corridors with no regard for safety, his or anyone else's. Who gave a damn about safety at a time like this? Halfway there he collided with Brainstorm, rolled, crashed into the bulkhead, and didn't even bother to check to see if the scientist was all right before he took off again. One fender throbbed and Drift was fairly certain he'd cracked a headlight, and Brainstorm was howling after him about damage to his briefcase, but none of that mattered.

_He had to get to the hangar. He had to get there before it was too late!_

At least Drift retained the presence of mind to seal his vents and deactivate his EM receptors as he got close to the hangar. Red Alert said he'd done something to the ventilation system in the hangar bay, but the mating chemicals Ratchet was putting out were a powerful thing. He wouldn't bet on Red being able to fully filter them out. The last thing Drift needed was to lose his own mind to the inciting waves of heat that Ratchet was broadcasting to the rest of the crew.

He was going to need all his faculties intact for this.

The heat-fight was still in full swing when he finally burst through the hangar door. Drift transformed back into his robot mode, relief and panic pounding in this processor as he assessed the battle. Almost a dozen mecha were still standing while the others had limped or crawled away–or simply lay where they fell. No one was using weapons, but that didn't mean no one was seriously hurt. These fights could be every bit as vicious as any battle during the war. The heat programming deactivated inhibitions and emphasized the darkest, deepest part of a mech's coding. Deaths were unusual, but not unheard of. Heats had always been rare and the long war had made them even more so. Every mech wanted to be the last mech standing, the victor who got the prize.

The only thing that could stop this battle was the defeat of all challengers, or–and this almost never happened–the intervention of the mech in heat themselves. While the last mech standing always got to claim the victor's prize, there were times when the mech in heat would wade into the fight and choose their mate when a fighter's prowess was so overwhelming that the heat coding marked them as the best mate before the battle even ended. Dangerous as it sounded, it truly wasn't–the heat coding made it all but impossible for anyone to endanger them, and every single mech would freeze as they waited to see what would happen. All Ratchet would have to do to stop this was stand up and all fighting would immediately cease.

But Ratchet did not appear to have any intention of doing that. He sat quietly on a crate against the far bulkhead, watching the battle with glassy optics that didn't seem to quite focus on any one thing. The medic's face was very nearly blank. He didn't react to Drift's noisy arrival or even seem to notice his crewmates viciously fighting for the right to claim him. In fact, he didn't react to much of anything, not even the energon streaking the deck. His medical protocols were fully subsumed by the heat cycle.

Uncharacteristic as it was, his passivity made the knot around Drift's spark loosen just a bit. This behavior meant that no one had touched him yet. Ratchet hadn't imprinted on a mate. No one had won him.

And Drift still had a chance.

He sprinted through the fighting mecha, ducking beneath fists, leaping over the sweep of a leg meant to trip him. Without the pheromones clouding his processor, Drift could approach this tactically. Fort Max was still up,  _of course_  he was, and Drift launched a powerful flying kick that connected to the side of his helm at full force. It was a dirty trick–Fort Max had been concentrating on his fight with Inferno, hadn't seen Drift coming, had no chance to dodge or block–but the enormous warrior was Drift's biggest threat and heat battles weren't about fighting fair. He followed up with a stiff-fingered jab to a very specific target at the base of Fort Max's helm, just beneath his right audial.

The big warrior collapsed like a house of cards.

But Drift had no time to feel satisfaction or relief, because taking down Max meant that  _he_  had taken the fighter's place as the number one threat. Inferno was sidetracked by Aquafend and they both hit the deck. Getaway leapt over them and Drift saw the electricity sparking in his hands before the escape specialist could make contact. Drift threw himself down and kicked straight up, landing a lucky blow to the side of Getaway's knee that made the joint crunch sickeningly. He shouted and collapsed, instinctively grabbing his injured knee, but unfortunately for him, he forgot to deactivate his stingers first. The double-shock from his own hands finished him off.

In the time it had taken Drift to take down those two, three others had fallen. Besides Inferno and Aquafend, four more mecha were fighting, and one of them was Rodimus himself. The captain disabled Gears with a punch to his hip that dislocated the joint. Then he turned and grinned at Drift through a mouthful of energon that stained his denta and dripped from his smashed lips. "Drift! I wondered when you'd get here," Rodimus said, and his voice held only the slightest hint of a slur. "Not gonna go easy on you just cuz we're friends. Sure you wanna do this?"

Not only wasn't he slurring, he was speaking in complete sentences and making  _sense._  The heat coding hadn't made him lose his head, not like it had done to the others. Drift started to wonder if he should've taken Rodimus out first instead of Fort Max. "You know I do," he said, watching out of the corner of his eye as Aquafend and Inferno somehow managed to smash their helms together with such force that  _both_  of them were knocked offline. He caught a glimpse of movement behind Rodimus as Hound finished off Atomizer and tried to keep the captain's attention so he wouldn't notice Hound zeroing in on him next–another dishonorable trick, and Drift couldn't find it in him to care. "You sure you want to go up against me?"

Rodimus chuckled. "I know you want him, but you don't just  _get_  what you want. You have to earn it." He started to attack Drift, but Hound tackled Rodimus from behind before he could–dirty fighting, par for the course–and Drift felt a disturbance in the air behind him.

He barely had time to spin and brace himself to catch Boss' flying leap. He spun with the momentum rather than letting himself be crushed under the heavier Autobot's weight. Boss hit the deck hard but rolled with it and was back up on his pedes faster than Drift had anticipated. He came up swinging and Drift didn't quite dodge fast enough this time. His big fist connected with Drift's left audial hard enough to crush the metal.

The pain was unbelievable. Drift couldn't hold back a scream but he managed to keep his optics online when they wanted to fritz out with the waves of feedback from the destruction of the sensor-packed finial. It was a good thing, too, because Boss' other fist was in motion, clearly en route to take out his other audial.

Drift managed to duck–he couldn't let that punch connect. Losing both audials would cripple him from the pain alone, not to mention losing the sensory feedback that was so vital to his fighting style. He was already fighting half-blind by not using his EM readers to detect his opponents' intentions–he needed every bit of information he could squeeze out of the rest of his sensors. Forcefully shoving the agony of his smashed audial aside, he dropped to his knees and punched Boss right in the interface panel with both fists, _one-two_ , hard as he could.

It was a low trick even for a Decepticon, and part of him was ashamed, but Drift would do whatever it took to win.

Boss grunted but wasn't incapacitated. Drift flattened himself to the deck and thrust both pedes out, hitting the same target again and putting his full strength behind it this time. That got a shout and Drift caught a glimpse of Rodimus and Hound both wincing–apparently Boss' pain had spilled out into his EM field, and Drift was glad he'd muted his own sensors. He leapt up and used that advantage to kick again, and again, and  _again_ , pummeling the poor mech's panel until it cracked under the abuse.

Boss cupped his groin in one hand and Drift's final kick broke three of his fingers instead. The big Turbomaster fell to his knees and tipped over. "Yield," he gasped, face-down on the deck. "That's enough, I yield."

The lack of slurring in his voice was more reassuring than the words themselves–Boss' own programming had recognized his defeat and was already working to clear the heat coding from his systems. There would be no further attacks from him.

Drift turned to face the other two just in time to see Rodimus punch Hound in the throat hard enough to crush his intake tubing. He dropped like a stone, clutching his neck.

And then Drift was facing his best friend and captain.

Ratchet shifted on the crate and Drift couldn't help glancing back at him. He and Rodimus both froze, waiting to see if the medic was getting up. Ratchet's fogged, feverish optics flickered between him and Rodimus and even with his vents sealed and his field readers offline, Drift swore he could feel the pull of his heat coding.

And Rodimus certainly could. His optical inlets spun wide and his vents quickened. A tremor shook his frame from helm to pedes. When it became clear that Ratchet wasn't going to move, he grinned that energon-dripping grin at Drift. "This is gonna be  _fun_ ," the captain growled, every line of his body screaming urgency but somehow still holding himself completely under control.

Oh, yes, Drift should  _definitely_  have taken Rodimus down instead of Fortress Maximus.

But now was not the time for regrets.  _Whatever it takes,_  Drift thought, and throwing caution to the wind, he stepped in front of Ratchet and drew his swords. "Yield," he said through clenched denta, his voice very low. Some part of him actually _wanted_ to fight Rodimus, to show Ratchet just what he was capable of and how far he'd go to win him. Most of him, though, desperately hoped that his friend would remember the late-night confession he'd dragged out of Drift about his feelings for Ratchet, would push past the heat coding and recall his own attempts to throw Drift and Ratchet together. He hoped his friend would stand aside.

But even if he didn't, Drift knew Rodimus would understand what drawing his swords meant. Drift was willing to do anything it took to win this battle. "Yield," he said again. "I  _will_ hurt you, Roddy. Don't make me."

Rodimus' grin only grew. He ran his glossa over his stained lips as though relishing the taste of his own energon. "Mmm, high stakes, even better," he said as his forearm blades slid out and clicked into place. His gaze flickered to Ratchet, and when he looked back at Drift, the swordsmech could see that despite his coherency, the heat coding had the other speedster fully in its grip. Even if he wanted to, Rodimus couldn't back down now. " _Y_ _ou_  yield."

"Make me," Drift snarled.

They crashed together, blades striking sparks and engines snarling aggression. Drift was the better swordsmech and they both knew it, but Rodimus had been the Prime for a reason. He was a powerful opponent and Drift had seen firsthand what happened to those who made the mistake of underestimating him.

He wasn't about to join them bleeding on the sidelines.

Drift stepped deliberately on Rodimus' pede as he shoved him back, making the red speedster stumble. It gave him only a second's delay while Rodimus caught his balance, but instead of pressing his advantage and attacking, Drift stepped back, clenched his fingers around the hilts of his swords, and used the instant he'd bought to force everything from his mind.

_Focus._

There was no audience of defeated mecha. No Red Alert watching on the video feed. No pain from his crushed helm finial. No aching from his rapidly-overheating internals. No strain to keep his vents sealed. No affection for his captain to distract him, no fear of failure, no dread of success.

No Ratchet quietly awaiting his fate, submissive and docile, a shadow of his true self. No ache in Drift's spark at seeing the fiery, passionate medic reduced to this.

Nothing existed but the swords in his hands and the foe before him.

Drift's tension eased and his fuel pump ceased its frantic hammering. Of all the things Wing had taught him, this was perhaps the most useful–this split-second meditation that focused him on the present moment and dismissed everything else. Mind calm, body still, spark centered, Drift stepped between Rodimus and Ratchet again and waited for the attack to come.

Even so, when it came, it was almost more than he could handle.

Rodimus was  _fast_ , and  _strong,_  and fragging  _determined._  And he and Drift trained together so he knew the swordsmech's fighting style, which meant that the lucky shots Drift had gotten in on the other mecha weren't going to work against Rodimus. Add in Drift's own determination to keep his frame firmly planted between Rodimus and Ratchet at all times that limited his mobility, and the lack of sensory input from his muted EM readers and his broken finial, and it all added up to Drift more than having his hands full.

And Rodimus saw every single one of those weaknesses and ruthlessly exploited them.

Drift had all he could do to parry and block, much less initiate any attacks of his own. He forced himself to wait. And finally it paid off. He saw an opening–just a hint of an opening and not a clean one, but he accepted taking one of Rodimus' blades in his shoulder to exploit it. The burn of the wound barely registered and Drift swept his sword straight up as he punched down on Roddy's forearm at the same time.

The tips of three red fingers were severed, but more importantly, the captain's blade snapped off, lodged deeply in Drift's armor but no longer of any use to Rodimus.

The captain actually laughed despite the pain he had to be feeling from his maimed hand. "Nice one," he said, sounding like he was genuinely enjoying this. He clenched his bleeding hand into a fist and brandished his remaining blade–on his nondominant side, which was a stroke of luck–and beckoned Drift forward. "But that looks painful. Was it worth it?"

Drift reached up and yanked the broken blade out of his shoulder, making sure to throw it far enough away that Rodimus couldn't easily pick it up and use it against him again. "Hope so," he said, and this time he didn't wait for Rodimus to attack him. Swords whistling in silver streaks, he pressed his brief advantage against the captain, pushing him further from Ratchet with every step.

Rodimus blocked as best he could with his single blade and the reinforced gauntlet on his other forearm, but Drift was merciless. Soon Rodimus' lips and fingers weren't the only places that were bleeding. He never gave Drift an opening that could finish the fight, but every tiny nick, every little cut weakened him. Every drop of energon he lost made Rodimus just that little bit slower. Every new flash of pain distracted him.

Finally Drift got a pede behind Rodimus' knee and swept his leg from beneath him. The captain fell back and Drift landed right on top of him,  _hard._  He pinned his friend to the floor with his knees on his shoulders, then caught Rodimus' retaliatory strike in one hand. The edge of his sword just cutting into the notched and cracked wrist housing that held his one remaining blade made Rodimus go still. "Yield or lose it," Drift warned. He didn't truly want to maim his friend any more than he already had, but he would do whatever it took.

He could not lose, not even to Rodimus.

The captain must have seen his willingness to do it in his optics because he didn't hesitate. "I yield. You earned it," he said, his tone as calm as if they were back in the training room with blunted steel instead of in a true fight that had left both of them bleeding. Then Rodimus actually winked at him. "And I expect to hear all about it later," he added, as cocky in defeat as he'd ever been in victory.

Drift pulled his swords away and released his friend. Now that the battle was over, reaction was setting in, and he was horrified to see just how  _many_  cuts he'd inflicted on Rodimus. The red speedster was all but covered in his own energon. "Oh, Primus, Roddy," he said, the words coming out hoarse and concerned. "Go see a medic."

Rodimus waved his maimed hand as though it was nothing. "How 'bout you concentrate on your own medic," he prompted, nodding over Drift's shoulder. Drift shivered and Roddy grinned. "Go on, don't keep him waiting."

Drift stood and turned around. Ratchet had left his perch on the crate and stood trembling before it, his optics fixed on Drift as though nothing else existed. Drift swallowed hard and forced his feet to approach. Desire rose in his spark and he realized that at some point in his fight with Rodimus, one of his vent covers had cracked. The chemical markers Ratchet was emitting were already seeping into his systems, spinning up his fans, sending his own coding into a frenzy as it fought to answer the erotic call that was now solely focused on him.

 _No._  Drift controlled himself ruthlessly and forced his pedes to stop a few feet away from Ratchet.

And instead of listening to the coding that urged him to reach out and touch the medic's plating, to release his own EM field and let Ratchet imprint on him, to grab him and kiss him and do all the thousand things he'd dreamed about, Drift kept his hands to himself. "Ratchet," he said, and had he thought his voice was hoarse when he'd spoken to Rodimus a moment ago? Now it sounded like every word was dragged over gravel. "Ratchet, you need to listen to me."

The medic didn't answer. His optics stayed locked on Drift's and his body swayed closer, his heat coding recognizing the victor and waiting for Drift to reach out and touch him.

He stretched out one of his swords and laid the flat of the blade against Ratchet's shoulder instead. Ratchet shuddered at the contact, but then he frowned as he realized it was an inanimate object touching him instead of a living mech. "Ratchet, can you hear me?" Drift tried again, needing some kind of recognition from the medic–as hot as it was to see him looking at Drift with that much desire in his gaze, there was absolutely nothing of the surly medic's personality there, and that took all the allure from the situation.

 _Claim him,_  his programming urged as lust pounded through his frame.  _You won, he's yours. Claim your prize!_

 _Not like this,_  Drift snarled at the programming, shoving it aside again.

And Ratchet still just stared at him, passive, tame,  _wrong_. The medic blinked, focused on Drift again, and started to reach out _._

Drift slapped his hand aside with the flat of his other sword. More than one mech gasped at that and someone growled, but Drift couldn't afford to care about anything but getting through to Ratchet right now. " _Ratchet!_ " he shouted, making sure the medic's hands got nowhere near his own plating. "Say something, dammit."

Someone snickered behind him–Atomizer, Drift thought, although he didn't dare take his optics off Ratchet to check. "If you did all this to have a conversation with him, kid, you did it wrong."

"First time, Drift?" Getaway said mockingly. "Need pointers?"

"Shut up," Drift growled at them without taking his optics off Ratchet for a single instant. He turned the dull edge of his blade toward Ratchet and this time he didn't just touch his shoulder with it. He  _hit_  him hard enough to leave a little dent. "Snap out of it, Ratchet!"

Powerflash struggled to get to his feet but fell back down when one leg wouldn't respond. It didn't stop him from growling, "Knock that off!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Hound yelled.

"Hey, you can't treat him like that!" someone else protested, but Drift ignored them all because Ratchet winced and his face abruptly cleared.

The medic's trembling increased but that glassy, almost drugged look left his optics. "Drift?" he whispered, confused as he glanced down at the swords in Drift's hands. "Why are you…" He broke off and looked around as if he had no clue where he was. Seeing the spilled energon and the number of mecha on the floor clearly triggered the realization of exactly what had happened because he looked back at the swordsmech in growing dismay. Ratchet wrapped his arms around himself as his horrified gaze shot back to Drift. "Oh, no, oh no no no…"

Drift pulled his swords back but didn't put them away–he was afraid of what his hands would do if he didn't have something to hold onto. "Ratchet, it's all right," he hastened to reassure him. He couldn't stand seeing his distress. "It's all right. You're gonna be okay, do you hear me?"

The heat coding was still obviously playing havoc with the medic's systems. Drift watched that hazy look come back over Ratchet's optics, but the medic pushed it away with clear difficulty. "Did you," he whispered, but he couldn't make himself finish that sentence. He vented unevenly and shook hard enough to rattle his armor as he visibly struggled. Finally he managed to force the question out. "Drift… who won?"

Drift's fingers ached on his swords. "Doesn't matter," he said, shaping the words through numb lips. Every line of his programming shrieked in protest at what he was doing. "Doesn't matter who won. You pick who  _you_  want."

" _What?"_

The word was shouted by a chorus of outraged voices behind him but Drift didn't pay them any attention. Ratchet kept staring at him, still fighting the pull of his heat, and he scowled, clearly angry that Drift wasn't making any sense. The exasperated frustration on his face was so familiar that the swordsmech almost smiled, but nothing about any of this was funny. "But…  _someone_  won," Ratchet managed. His hand rose toward Drift even though the medic didn't seem aware of reaching out. "That's how it works."

Drift stepped back to avoid his touch and nearly tripped over a defeated mech's leg. He stumbled, righted himself, and made damn sure that he was still between Ratchet and everyone else. "I don't  _care_  how it works. No one's doing that to you, Ratchet," he said, trying to make the medic understand.

"Why the frag did you even fight, then?" Boss growled, and yes, that  _would_ be who Drift had almost fallen on. He glared up at the swordsmech, both hands still covering his shattered interface panel. "The hell is wrong with you, Drift?"

"Yeah, do you just get off on ruining everyone else's chances?" Grapple yelled, and quite a few others were getting in on it, too.

"Why even bother coming down here if you didn't want him?"

"Frag this idiot, if he ain't making a claim, it's still on," someone else said, and Drift caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

His sword flashed out and Getaway's hand fell to the deck in a spray of energon and sparks. The unfortunate mech howled with pain but he hadn't managed to touch Ratchet and that was all that mattered. " _It doesn't slagging matter who won_ , he's not a damn frag toy! It matters who he  _wants!_ " Drift shouted, and the rest of them went silent. Ratchet's gaze was confused but this was probably as clear as his thinking was going to get, and Drift reeled in his temper and focused on him alone. He forced himself to speak slowly and deliberately. "You choose, Ratchet. You choose who gets to take care of you. Anyone you want. I'll make sure you get them.  _You_   _choose_."

Ratchet's hand hovered in the air between them, unsure, trembling. Then he pulled his hand back as his optics swept the room, looking from face to face. Drift felt weak with relief–Ratchet had  _understood_. Of course it would be obvious that Drift was the only mech on his pedes, but so long as Ratchet understood that the choice was his, it would be all right.

All Drift had to do was hold out for another few moments. His internal mechanisms throbbed with heat and he wished he could unseal his vents to disperse it, but he didn't dare, not with the medic so close. Just the tiny amount of pheromones that had managed to seep through his cracked vent seal were already driving Drift insane, and he would never forgive himself if he let some damn stupid autonomic coding steal this choice from Ratchet. He didn't  _care_  that it was instinct, or that this winner-takes-the-prize mentality was socially accepted, or that he'd wanted to touch the medic long before this, or that Ratchet wouldn't fight anything Drift wanted to do to him. He didn't even care that Ratchet  _expected_  the winner to claim him.

None of that made it right.

"Who I want," Ratchet breathed as he met Drift's gaze again, his voice dark and husky, and a shudder worked its way down Drift's spinal strut at that sultry tone. He closed his optics and clenched his sword hilts tighter, wanting so damn bad and absolutely determined not to take.

Which was why he didn't see the medic's hand coming until it was too late to avoid it.

Ratchet's fingertips just brushed against Drift's wrist as the swordsmech belatedly tried to dodge again, but that slight touch was all it took to seal his fate. Drift groaned as the heat coding overrode his manual shutdown and his field surged to meet Ratchet's. They crashed together in a crackle of energy and Ratchet's hand wrapped fully around his wrist, fingers clenching tight as both of them moaned with an intense rush of arousal. Drift's optics hazed with desire even as his spark churned in turmoil.

Damn it, hadn't Ratchet understood what Drift was offering him?

But then the medic looked at him again and even through the resurgent heat coding, Drift saw the familiar fire in his optics, the blaze of the medic's spirit there. It wasn't the coding that was staring at Drift through those burning optics, it was  _Ratchet._  

"Choice made," the medic gritted, his field meshing with Drift's, imprinting on him and surrounding him with a wave of desire. "Now get me out of here."


	3. I'd Wait a Million Years

Ratchet awoke with a sense of complete unreality. Something wasn't… his body felt…  _not right,_  somehow, in a way he couldn't quite pin down.

Not that he was in pain. Not even the slightest bit, actually, and it had been a long time since he'd last awakened without stiffness and at least a few aches, but not one of his usual chronic complaints were bothering him now. It was beyond unusual and he wondered idly for a while if he was really waking up or if this was some kind of dream. Even so, there was no sense of urgency attached to figuring it out. It felt rather like he'd been ill, or injured, but whatever it had been was over now and he was safe. Cared for.

Probably in the medbay, he figured, but none of the berths there were this comfortable, and he'd napped on them enough to know. Then again, since no part of his worn-out old frame was hurting at all, he was probably also doped out of his mind on enough painkillers to make even a slab in the medbay feel nice. He'd be an idiot not to just lie here and enjoy that for as long as it lasted.

Force of habit had him running a basic internal diagnostic anyway. The report he got back wasn't very informative–he had no injuries, but his electrochemistry was slightly out of balance and his recent memory banks were significantly corrupted by whatever had happened. His self-repair was at work on both issues. His fuel level was at optimum, topped up with that recovery blend he hated so much. Several of his autonomic protocols were disabled–thermoregulation, interface, T-cog, a handful of others–all of which was typical for a mech coming out of an induced state of stasis.

Yeah, he was definitely in the medbay. Ratchet didn't bother to online his optics. First Aid or Lancet or Ambulon would see that he'd come online and would come tell him what had happened soon, he was sure. Of course he was curious, but it was clear that whatever had happened to him was over now and he'd made it through just fine, and best of all,  _others were handling it_. Right now it was enough to lie here with his body cradled in perfect comfort and wait for his processor to clean up whatever memories it could for his review, and enjoy not being in charge for as long as it lasted.

And  _cradled_  was the right word. The surface beneath his spinal strut was supple enough to qualify as downright luxurious  _(when had they changed out the medbay slabs for these? Had he authorized that? Or was getting an upgraded berth a perk of being the CMO?)_  but this was more than just lying in a nice berth. Pillows had been tucked around him like a nest, cushioning his shoulders, his helm, supporting his forearms and knees, elevating his pedes. There were even a pair of small, soft rolls tucked into his palms, and whoever had put them there had curled his fingers around them just right. A silky blanket covered him from chest to pedes, holding his engine's warmth around him without being heavy enough to overheat him, and that was definitely not one of the standard-issue heating tarps he used on his patients. Ratchet felt nearly weightless, perfectly supported, like he'd been wrapped in a sweet, safe cocoon where nothing bad could touch him.

But despite all of that, he still felt… wrong, somehow. Even though he wasn't hurting, some deep sense insisted that he should be. Something here wasn't what he should expect, although Ratchet had no idea what could be wrong with feeling so comfortable and safe and warm and looked after.

The memory defrag finished at that moment and presented its first packet of recovered files for his review.

– _slagging pit of a day, First Aid won't leave me alone, feel like slag warmed over, can't fuel, can't rest, processor aches, everything is too hot and armor is too tight and Swerve must have spiked my drink, I will_ KILL _anyone who touches me–_

Ratchet's lassitude evaporated and his vents stalled. He knew exactly one thing that caused symptoms like those.

_Oh fragging Primus in the pit please don't tell me…_

The memory files didn't care about his dread and continued to unpack. All Ratchet could do was try to keep venting as the scenes unfolded in his mind. The time-stamps on the data became progressively more confusing as the heat coding infiltrated his processor–moments lasted years while long stretches of time passed in a blink–but Ratchet was able to make sense of most of it.

A helluva lot more of it than he wanted to.

–blink–

 _Walking into the hangar where the coding had taken him in search of a mate, instinctively finding the best place for the courtship fight and feeling a vague sense of pride that so_ many _mecha had come to try to win him_

–blink–

 _One warrior crashing into the fight late but immediately standing out in the melee, taking down all the others–a blur of white and red and grey, lithe and graceful, aggressive but controlled, every move deliberate, almost beautiful in his violence… the coding watched this powerful fighter dismantle all opposition and_ purred _, liking everything it saw_

–blink–

 _Pain, pain from his shoulder–something hit him? That wasn't right, no one was supposed to hurt him in this, and the wrongness of it snapped Ratchet out of the coding just long enough to recognize that the magnificent fighter was_ Drift _and somehow understand that even though the swordsmech had won him, he had no intention of actually claiming him. Was so determined to resist that he'd even sealed off his own vents and shut down his field detectors, effectively blinding himself to Ratchet's heat signals._

 _And Ratchet hadn't liked that. He hadn't liked that_ at all _, code or no code. Was hurt that he wasn't wanted. But then the swordsmech looked at him with his spark naked in his optics and Ratchet realized his first impression couldn't have been more wrong. Drift did want him, wanted him badly, and it had nothing to do with chemicals or coding. Despite that, he was giving Ratchet the power to tell him no. Had won but would not only stand aside and let Ratchet choose another, he would do whatever it took to ensure he got his choice, instinct be damned._

_It was beyond stunning and the medic felt a brief moment of awed gratitude that what he wanted and what the heat coding demanded were so perfectly in line. He reached out and made his choice, and savored the shock on his swordsmech's face_

–blink–

_Another door in front of him, sliding aside to reveal a hab suite that was much larger than his own. A hand around Ratchet's, a sense of strength withheld, holding tight but so carefully, fingers trembling around his._

_The solid thunk of a lock._

_The click of vents opening, a rush of air into starved, overheated systems._

_Drift moaning and falling back against the locked door as the chemical markers Ratchet couldn't help emitting hit him full force. His field flared with overwhelming lust and Ratchet's own field reacted so strongly he felt drunk with it, so attuned to Drift,_ imprinted _on him, willing to do anything to get_ more _of him, and Drift whispered Ratchet's name and caught his face in his hands and kissed him like he'd spent a lifetime yearning to learn his taste_

–blink–

" _Ratchet, Ratchet, you won't regret this, I'll make this so good for you, I swear I'll make you glad you chose me… gonna take care of you… give you everything you need, anything you want… make this so good for you… tell me what you need…"_

 _Whispered promises against his throat, kisses on his plating, every touch of that mouth burning like the sweetest fire, gentle insistent hands seeking every secret of his frame and the thrill of finally getting his own hands on those sleek dangerous curves, how perfectly they fit together, pleasure rising alongside a need so strong that it bordered real pain and Ratchet couldn't tell him anything–his vocalizer would emit nothing but static and moans, but he arched on the berth_ (when had they found a berth? when had they fallen down on it? –it didn't matter) _and spread his thighs and made sure Drift understood exactly what he needed and Drift gave it, oh Primus, how he gave it_

–blink–

 _Overloading, overloading_ hard _, hardly recognizing his own voice screaming Drift's name, riding what had to be the universe's most perfect spike, every thrust hitting his ceiling node just right and sending him over again and again while that sweet voice murmured in his audial, pleas and promises and praises and he couldn't understand any of the words but the tone pushed him over again and_ triumph satisfaction greed _as this time he took Drift over with him, the wonderful hot rush of Drift's charge lighting up his valve as the reproductive nanites were greedily pulled into his gestation chamber_

–blink–

 _Drift's mouth should be a sin and that mouth was everywhere, hands caressing Ratchet's plating, fingertips dancing over sensitive transformation seams, and best of all the way their fields were completely enmeshed now, letting him feel every bit of Drift's pleasure and the way he shuddered with wonder every time Ratchet overloaded on his fingers, his glossa, his spike, and the swordsmech's singleminded determination to completely overwhelm Ratchet with ecstasy,_ make this so good for you, Ratchet, give you everything you need, anything you want _and he did, again and again he did_

–blink–

 _An island of calm between 'facing and Ratchet knew he should take the chance to rest but Drift was holding him close and kissing him again and again, long, soft kisses, all the time in the world kisses, sweet and tender and perfect kisses, kisses from a fantasy, too good to be real, and Ratchet regained his voice just long enough to beg_ don't stop, please don't stop _in a hoarse awed whisper and Drift murmured_ anything you want _and didn't stop_

-blink-

_Arms around him, cradling him back against his lover, leaving him unable to do anything but claw at the berth coverings and receive pleasure, his neural net was aflame but the coding was starting to ebb as if this was the last time it needed and Ratchet didn't want it to be over, he had never experienced anything so exquisite, and the intensity of his relief when Drift's overload filled him and yet it wasn't quite enough to end the heat cycle, Ratchet could keep him a little longer_

–blink–

 _Drift rising above him and that hot mouth on his hands now,_ oh Primus, on his hands _, glossa tracing every joint, exploring one finger at a time with the utmost care, suckling and nibbling and teasing, and Ratchet heard his own wanton moaning in the background but all he could do was stare up at Drift as he made love to his hands with that glorious mouth and held his optics the entire time, spike thrusting slow and easy inside him as Ratchet overloaded again and again beneath that intense gaze_

–blink–

_Drift, so damn beautiful in his final overload_

–blink–

 _Exhaustion. The code receded at last. It was over. Ratchet barely felt his aching body being shifted, moved out of the mess they'd made and tenderly folded in Drift's arms as the swordsmech kissed him again, whisper-soft now, lips lingering on his, still perfect, and Drift murmuring words Ratchet couldn't find the energy to comprehend, something that might've been_  thank you _or might've been something else_.

–blackout–

The first data packet ended there and Ratchet was glad of it. He lay rigid with shock in his nest of pillows, venting much too fast, shivering even though he wasn't the slightest bit chilled. That... all of it... it was all real, every bit of it, undeniable as the energon pounding through his frame.

And now he knew why he was so certain his body should hurt. A marathon like that should've left him too sore to move. How many overloads had Drift wrung from his body over the last… he didn't even know how long it had been since his heat cycle had hit him, had absolutely no clue how long he'd been mindless with lust, but even his valve didn't ache.

_How?_

The second data packet pinged him again, promising answers, but much as he needed to know, Ratchet still had to force himself to open it.

Ratchet's internal chronometer picked up at some point, but the memories in this file were even less coherent than the first. The heat coding had shut him down when it achieved its goal, throwing him down the black well of post-heat stupor despite anything he could do. There was a reason Ratchet expected to wake up in the medbay–a mech coming out of heat needed care, and the medbay was the right place to receive it. Post-heat stupor could be dangerous without proper supportive treatment, and Ratchet hadn't been in good condition to start with. He might deny it to his junior medics but he knew damn well he didn't take good care of himself. Not to mention that he hadn't fueled for at least a day before his heat had struck, and after the exertions he'd been through since, at the very least he should be in significant distress from a low fuel level–

But he'd already determined that he wasn't. The first vague memory of the second packet played in his mind's eye–Drift holding Ratchet's head in his lap, patiently feeding him recovery blend, urging him to take each tiny sip and praising him for every one. The time-stamp skipped several times but the scene didn't change. Drift supported his head and coaxed him to refuel, continuing for as long as it took to bring him back up to his proper fuel level.

Ratchet had a flash of his own condition–exhausted, limp, uncooperative, _fraggoff dammit_.

A chuckle. An indulgent kiss on his helm. More fuel. Drift must've been at it for hours.

A new memory, being roused by someone checking on him. First Aid, perhaps? He wasn't sure, but it was definitely a medic because they plugged into his medical data ports and Ratchet felt the brief tickle of a diagnostic being run through his systems. The medic was speaking to Drift, words he hadn't bothered trying to understand at the time, but a few were still logged in the file. "–fine, just a little cold–" and "–this will help his valve–" and "–aren't obligated to, can go to the medbay–" and "No, please, I want to–" And the third mech leaving as a warm frame pressed against Ratchet's back and something soft and wonderful covered him, chasing the slight chill away.

Another memory file, and some time had passed because this one was much clearer: lying prone while his frame was systematically manipulated, starting at his pedes and moving up. Drift working oil into every single joint, smoothing kinks out of his wiring, his fingers gentle, patient, thorough. Armor plating removed from his back to expose his spinal strut, leaving Ratchet so vulnerable, but never feeling anything but calm as Drift's fingers massaged away the aches and stiffness of centuries. It felt amazing and Ratchet wished he could speak to ask Drift not to stop. A sinking disappointment when his back plates were reattached, not ready for it to be over, turning into such relief when Drift gently rolled him onto his back so he could continue, working up the front of his legs this time.

A brief moment of apprehension when his interface panel override was manually triggered and he felt a touch on his valve. No, that was sore, that _hurt_ , Ratchet didn't want that and he tried to awaken, to protest, to _get away_ , but the pain abruptly stopped and he realized those fingers weren't molesting him. They were merely applying some kind of cool gel that eased the sting of overuse. A slender _something_ slipped inside him, not a finger, not a spike, something that almost immediately began to dissolve and take his soreness with it. Treatment completed, Drift didn't linger. Ratchet's panel was closed again and he relaxed, realizing that he'd been safe the entire time.

Drift moved on with his massage. He worked warm oil into the joints of Ratchet's hips, then the flexion seams around his chest, up to his neck, then down to his shoulders, elbows, forearm mechanisms, wrists. Even the hinges of the cover to his diagnostic panel received a share of the swordsmech's meticulous attention.

But Drift reserved the most lavish care for his hands. The memory skipped and jumped but even the corrupted file clearly showed how reverently the swordsmech had ensured that every joint was worked until not a trace of stiffness remained. One finger at a time, tip to base, then the thumb, and finally the palm; over to the other hand where the procedure was repeated. His touch was perfect, the oil warm, the pressure divine, and Ratchet wasn't sure anything had ever felt so wonderfully relaxing. No one took care of him, not like this, and Drift wasn't doing it for recognition or praise–Ratchet was deep in the post-heat stupor, unable to respond, unlikely even to realize what Drift was doing, and the medic basked in this unasked-for attention. Even the data steadied, these last few minutes completely undamaged as though Ratchet had instinctively tried to preserve the recollection forever.

And when Drift was finally done, the swordsmech cradled Ratchet's right hand in both of his, palm up, and lifted it. He held it to his cheek for a moment before pressing a single soft kiss into the medic's palm. "I love you," he breathed against his plating, then lowered his hand and tenderly wrapped the medic's fingers around a pillow before doing the same with his left. Gentle touch, soft kiss, whispered words.

"I love you."

Uncorrupted memory file, words perfectly clear despite being murmured into his palm. No way Ratchet could pretend he had misheard. No way to pretend Drift hadn't meant it.

Drift had meant all of it.

There was a reason why he'd sped down to the hangar bay and crashed into the heat fight with such determination. There was a reason he'd cut his best friend to ribbons to ensure he was the victor. There was a reason he'd given up his prize and put the power in Ratchet's hands.

Drift hadn't been fighting over Ratchet. Drift had been fighting  _for_  Ratchet, and there was an enormous difference.

And while Drift's own heat coding would have prompted him to frag Ratchet straight through the berth and overload inside him until his gestation chamber was full of reproductive nanites, the coding had nothing to do with the way Drift had taken such care to pleasure him. It hadn't made him caress Ratchet all over and learn just how and where he liked to be touched. It hadn't made him gaze into Ratchet's optics and smile as he watched him overload. It hadn't made him lavish attention on Ratchet's sensitive hands, or lick his valve to overload again and again, or kiss him endlessly while his fingers brought Ratchet to peak after peak. None of those things would sate the code. All it cared about was getting a tank full of nanites. It didn't give a damn if Ratchet enjoyed the process or not.

Ratchet had been in heat before, twice. Neither of those times had been anything like this. They were pleasant enough, yes, but never had he felt the coding starting to recede and wished it would stay a little longer. Never had he been cared for like this in the aftermath. Those things… Drift hadn't done any of this because of some damn coding.

Drift hadn't just been fragging a mech in heat. He'd been making love to Ratchet, long before they'd hit the berth and for every moment after their final interface.

Ratchet let out a shuddering sigh, his fingers curling into his palms where he could swear he still felt the lingering warmth of Drift's lips.

_Oh, I am in so far over my head._

But before he could give in to panic, an entry request ping interrupted his thoughts. Ratchet finally onlined his optics and turned his head just in time to see the door to Drift's hab suite slide open. "It's just me, Drift," someone called, and Ratchet recognized First Aid's voice.

How many times had he been here to know Drift's lock code and feel so comfortable about walking right in?

The junior doctor entered and seemed surprised not to see Drift, but then he caught sight of Ratchet and his optics widened behind the visor. "Wow, you're awake already?" he said, hurrying over to the berth. "How do you feel?"

 _Embarrassed as pit and even more confused,_  Ratchet thought, but he didn't say it. Pushing aside a little pang of loss for his pillow-nest, he pushed himself up on his elbows and swung his feet over the side of the berth. This conversation with First Aid was not one he wanted to have on his back.

First Aid was at his side so fast, he might've teleported there. "Whoa, don't get ahead of yourself," he said, catching Ratchet by the shoulders and then repeating, "How do you feel?"

"I feel… good," Ratchet told him, and it wasn't even a lie. He'd expected his old aches and pains to return in a rush the instant he'd moved, but he still felt perfectly fine. Didn't mean he wasn't still almost desperate for answers, though. "Why am I still here? I shouldn't still be here."

First Aid was smiling–Ratchet could feel it in his field. "Drift wanted to take care of you through the stupor," the other medic said.

"But why did you  _let_  him?" Ratchet knew how he sounded but he couldn't help it. "I should've been taken to the medbay."

"I let him have his way because the medbay is packed full of the idiots who got themselves torn up trying to win you, and the fallout from the other fights, too," First Aid told him bluntly. "And also because he was doing a damn fine job of it. You wouldn't have gotten anything like the level of care he gave you if I'd taken you to the medbay, I promise you that."

Ratchet remembered that massage and felt his faceplates heat.

_Kisses in his hands. Whispered words against his palms._

_Can't think about that right now._ "Why the frag didn't you tell me I was going into heat so I could take something for it?" he growled, remembering that miserable shift with First Aid before his disastrous trip to Swerve's. There were any number of ways to prevent heat, or at least keep it from going as far as it had. "You had to know it."

First Aid actually laughed. "Ratchet, I told you about six times. The last time you offered to tear out my vocalizer if I didn't shut up and leave you alone."

He… did not remember any of that. What he remembered was First Aid muttering nonsense, and acting in ways that made no sense, and he knew enough about the heat coding to understand why. A mech could only delay their heat for so long before the programming reached right up into the center of their processor and took over. If it could walk Ratchet down to the hangar and make him sit there while a bunch of idiots tore themselves apart fighting for the right to frag him, making him disregard the warning signs was nothing.

First Aid clearly knew it too and shook his head. "You weren't getting out of it. Put it off for a while, had you?"

"You could say that," Ratchet admitted, but he'd had damn good reasons. He'd been on the front lines of the war. Optimus Prime had needed him to be an asset to his team, not a distraction. He couldn't afford to be laid-out and useless for a week or more, not when lives were at stake.

Besides, Optimus would've taken care of his best friend's heat himself in a polite, nonjudgmental, and businesslike manner, and that was the kind of awkward that Ratchet had no desire to ever experience again.

Then something else the other medic had said caught his attention. "Did you say  _another–_ "

"Oh yeah, you don't know. Dipstick went into heat the same night you did, and Rodimus and Atomizer both went into heat two days after yours," First Aid replied, and Ratchet was glad of the other medic's face mask because he could at least pretend that his junior was not grinning. "Rodimus' fight got seriously ugly. Ultra Magnus won him and they still haven't surfaced, although I can't imagine it'll take them much longer to exhaust his programming and fall into stupor. I'm not sure which one of them is going to recover from that first. We've had three more patients come in for suppressant treatments, and no one's seen Chromedome and Rewind for a day and a half so I have my suspicions there, too. All in all, it's been a rather interesting week. Thank Primus Red Alert found a way to micromanage the ventilation system. I think we're just about at the end of the domino effect."

Ratchet covered his face with both hands and tried not to groan. That was another side effect of delaying heat as long as he had. When it finally hit, it could be powerful enough to trigger others.

So much for not being a distraction.

If First Aid noticed his embarrassment, he'd been a medic much too long to give any sign of it. "Let me have your diagnostic port," he said, opening his own and unspooling a cable as he sat down beside Ratchet on the berth.

Ratchet offered his forearm in a bit of a daze. "How long have I been here?"

"Five days–two of heat, three of stupor," First Aid replied matter-of-factly, plugging in. He paused there and met Ratchet's gaze instead of starting his diagnostic scan. "Do you want me to check if you're sparked or do you want to do that one yourself?"

The CMO shuddered. No, he couldn't face that information right now. "I'll do it myself later," he said hoarsely. Ever the professional, 'Aid just nodded and initiated the modified scan. Needing to get his mind off that question, Ratchet asked a different one. "Where is he?"

First Aid didn't need to ask who he was talking about. "Surprised he's not right here, to be honest. Every time I've come in, Drift's been right beside you. I thought I heard the washracks going when I came in, though, so maybe he finally took my advice to take a little care of himself, too. I'll tell you where he's not, and that's in the medbay getting his damn shoulder and audial flare taken care of," he added with a frown. "When he comes out of there, send him down to me."

Ratchet didn't know quite how to take that information. The mental image of Drift ignoring his own wounds so he could pamper Ratchet… wasn't as hard to believe as it should've been, and yet again he didn't know how to feel about it. "Was he badly hurt?" he asked, because he knew how vicious courtship fights could be.

The other medic snorted. "Ask him, he's fine. Ask me? There's no way that doesn't hurt. You send him straight down to me, Ratchet. Don't let him argue. Now that you're up, he doesn't need to stick to your side like he's been doing, and that's been his excuse. Tell him he's got three hours or else I'm coming to get him."

All Ratchet could do was nod. Truthfully, he was still pretty damn tired, even with his tanks full and three days of near-constant sleep behind him, but he knew how this went. For a mech this close to his heat, he was actually in rather amazing condition.

First Aid nodded in satisfaction and unplugged his cables. "You're in perfect shape, which I'm sure you already know," he said, standing again. "And I'm sure you know exactly what to do to keep your recovery on track. But humor me and listen to my instructions anyway. Don't exert yourself. Recharge when you feel tired, which is right now and don't bother arguing because I just saw it on your scan. You don't need the recovery blend any longer and can go back to regular fuel, but stay clear of the high-grade for at least another week. Your interface protocols will be offline for another two weeks and don't try to rush that, either."

Ratchet actually snorted at that. "I think I've had all the interface I can handle for a while," he said, hiding his resurgent embarrassment behind dry humor.

But First Aid didn't laugh. "Last instruction, Ratchet, and it's the most important one." He put a hand on Ratchet's shoulder and looked straight into his optics. "Do  _not_  leave this room without talking to Drift. I saw what happened in the hangar, and I've watched him take care of you these last three days. I've seen mecha who are less dedicated in caring for their conjunx endura than he was to you. The very least you can do is not ditch him without a word."

Ratchet had to look away. Was he so easy to read? "I… will take that under advisement," he finally whispered.

First Aid squeezed his shoulder and nodded. He paused again at the door, though, and looked back. "Ratchet, I know you have a history with him, but I'm telling you right now, you could do one hell of a lot worse." He paused and opened the door, then added, "And I'm not sure you could do much better."

And then he was gone, leaving Ratchet to fall back onto Drift's berth and try to figure out how the pit he was going to look Drift in the face ever again, much less actually speak to him. His frame had other ideas, though, and pulled him down into the blackness of dreamless recharge once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N–I do not do this song-title-chapter-name thing very often, but this fic seems to want to do it, and I've learned to give my Muse her head. I started this chapter absolutely intending it to be NIN "Closer" and it ended up being... well, this... and this is why I don't argue with the Muse anymore. I think she's smarter than me.)
> 
> All of the lonely nights
> 
> Waiting for you to come, longing to hold you tight
> 
> I need you so desperately
> 
> Waiting for you to come bringing your love to me [but]
> 
> I'd wait a million years
> 
> Walk a million miles, cry a million tears
> 
> I'd swim the deepest sea
> 
> Climb the highest hill, just to have you near me
> 
> As love is reality
> 
> When you are near to me, I am in ecstacy
> 
> I'd swallow the pain and pride
> 
> Baby, I just can't hide all that I feel inside [and]
> 
> I'd wait a million years
> 
> Walk a million miles, cry a million tears
> 
> I'd swim the deepest sea
> 
> Climb the highest hill, just to have you near me
> 
> A million years, I would wait for you
> 
> A million tears, baby I'd be true
> 
> A million miles, I would follow you
> 
> A million years, if you want me to
> 
> Pacing the floor, detest
> 
> Sweat pouring down my chest, still I can't love you less
> 
> It's worth all the pain and pride
> 
> Baby, I just can't hide all that I feel inside [and]
> 
> I'd wait a million years
> 
> Walk a million miles, cry a million tears
> 
> I'd swim the deepest sea
> 
> Climb the highest hill, just to have you near me
> 
> ~ The Grass Roots "I'd Wait a Million Years"


	4. Something's Gotta Go Wrong, 'Coz I'm Feeling Way Too Damn Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the updated tags.

Nothing woke Ratchet.

That didn't mean he stayed asleep. He jerked awake as though someone had shouted his name, but Drift's suite was completely silent apart from the faint hiss of the washracks. Ratchet pushed up onto his elbows slowly, checking his internal chronometer and trying to figure out what had jolted him out of recharge.

It wasn't an entry request ping–he'd been asleep only a little over two hours and First Aid had given Drift three to get his aft down to the medbay for care before he came back to get the swordsmech himself. Ratchet groaned, realizing he'd slept sprawled half-on and half-off Drift's berth in a way that put one of his old aches right back into his neck, but he was far too used to that for the pain to be what had awakened him. Wincing, remembering the luxury of that perfect pillow nest Drift had made for him, he wished he could always wake up pain-free like that. Oh, that had been a treat. He doubted he could've settled himself half so comfortably in the pillows as Drift had arranged him, but the least Ratchet could've done was make sure both his damn legs were up on the berth.

… come to think of it, after all the care Drift had lavished on him over the last five days, it was a little surprising that the swordsmech hadn't come in and repositioned him. It wasn't so much that Ratchet expected Drift to dote upon him, but after how attentively he'd cared for the medic until now, it was hard to believe he'd abandoned Ratchet at the first sign of consciousness instead of seeing him through the rest of his stupor. First Aid had described a level of dedication that went far above and beyond anything he could've expected, and Ratchet's own memories backed up that assessment. Drift hadn't left him alone for a single minute for the last five long days and now the speedster had just vanished.

The hiss of the washracks suddenly seemed a lot louder than before. Who took a shower for over two hours?

Was Drift hiding in there, consumed with embarrassment or second thoughts? Ratchet couldn't understand why he would be– _Ratchet_  was the one who'd made a fool of himself, triggering half of the damn ship with his pheromones because he hadn't recognized he was going into heat. He'd managed not only to spark a courtship fight that had sent a good portion of the crew to the medbay, he'd managed to take out the ship's captain, second,  _and_  third in command, not to mention subtracting himself from the medbay roster right when the casualties came in. Ratchet couldn't have screwed this up worse if he'd actively planned it.

Drift, though… Drift should be nothing but proud of how he had comported himself. He'd risen above base programming and treated Ratchet far better than anything he deserved. Ratchet hadn't checked to see if he was sparked, but if he was going to create a sparkling with anyone, First Aid was right–he could do a lot worse than Drift.

But even the thought of a sparkling sent a wave of panic through him. Nope,  _not_  thinking about that right now, nuh-uh, and Ratchet shoved his thoughts back to Drift's disappearance.

Was Drift staying in there because he regretted what he'd whispered after that blissful massage? Ratchet shied away from that thought. He didn't know how he was going to respond to that, but at least he could reasonably pretend that he hadn't heard it. Honestly, he  _shouldn't_  have heard it. He'd been so deeply in his stupor that Drift should've been able to shout it right in his audial without it making an impression. Ratchet didn't approve of lying as a rule, but he could accept this bit of luck with grace, at least until he figured out his own feelings for the swordsmech. He didn't have to address it the first instant he saw Drift again.

The only thing he was certain of was that he didn't  _want_  Drift to regret saying it, and that was quite enough confusion for Ratchet to handle right now, thank you very much.

… was Drift all right in there?

Ratchet's fatigue evaporated in a wave of concern. Morning-after awkwardness be damned, he couldn't just ignore Drift's disappearance, and at least it gave him an excuse to talk to the swordsmech about something other than his damned heat or that declaration of love. "Drift?" he called, pushing himself fully upright on the edge of the berth and wincing as his back protested. He winced again at how pitiful and weak his voice sounded. Post-heat stupor  _sucked._  He reset his vocalizer and tried again, and this time the words were a bit steadier. "You all right in there?"

No answer.

And now Ratchet was starting to get a bit uneasy. He forced his aching, exhausted frame upright and got slowly to his feet. He knew enough to stand still for a minute instead of starting to walk right away–he'd watched far too many patients pass out on the floor after extended berthrest to make that mistake–but he chafed at the delay all the same. His gyros stabilized at last and he walked across Drift's suite toward the private washracks, a perk of command that Ratchet frankly envied.

Drift's hab suite was probably double the size of Ratchet's, but right now it felt like ten times that much. Twice he had to stop and lean heavily against the wall. Frag, First Aid was right–Ratchet was in no shape to be out of berth, but someone had to check up on Drift and be slagged if he was going to send anyone else in to interrupt the swordsmech's shower. He didn't let himself look too closely at that possessiveness, focusing on making it to the washracks without falling over instead.

It'd be just his luck if it turned out Drift wasn't in there at all and the hissing he heard was just an exhaust fan or a leak or something, but he was halfway there and he was  _not_  going to let his weakness make him turn back now.

"Drift?" Ratchet called again when he finally reached the closed door and half-collapsed against the frame before knocking. The door was locked from the inside, so at least he knew he hadn't made the trip over here for nothing– _someone_ was in there. "You all right?"

No answer, and Ratchet gave up pretending he wasn't flat-out worried by now. He knocked again, more insistently this time. "Drift. Open up."

Nothing.

He hesitated a moment more. Drift was in the shower--that was private time and he didn't want to just barge in--before shaking his head. It was a bit stupid to be worried about Drift's modesty at this point. Ratchet was a doctor, he'd seen it all before anyway, and he and Drift had spent most of the last week being as intimate as two mecha could possibly be. Repeatedly.

"Drift, I'm coming in," he announced, then keyed in the emergency medical override code that would let him open any door on the ship.

A blast of cold, humid air slapped him the instant the door slid open. He gasped. "What in the smelter," Ratchet whispered, shuddering as his armor clamped down tight to preserve his body heat–his thermoregulation protocols still weren't quite up to standard and that wave of cold  _hurt._  He reset his optics to clear the fog from them and peered through the mist.

The shower was running full-blast, spraying frigid cleanser from four different angles, but no one stood beneath the spray. "Drift?" Ratchet said uncertainly.

A muffled whimper at floor-level finally drew his gaze downward.  _"Drift!"_  Ratchet cried, forgetting the cold and his own weakness and rushing toward the mech who lay crumpled on the washracks floor.

Drift flung out a hand in a warding-off gesture and didn't turn to face him. "D-d-don't," he gasped through chattering denta. "Stay b-back. T-t-t-too cold f-f-for you."

"Frag that," Ratchet growled, reaching out to pull the swordsmech out of the pounding cleanser, but when Drift cringed away from him and pressed himself into the furthest corner to avoid his touch, the medic stopped. "Why are you–" he began, but he had his answer before he could finish asking the question. An explosive wave erupted from Drift's EM field–desire, fear, need, revulsion,  _heat._  Ratchet's jaw dropped. "No, you can't be…"

But he was, logical or not. Ratchet's field was still deeply attuned to Drift's even though his own heat's imprinting had faded, and he couldn't deny the evidence in Drift's field or the chemical markers that faintly laced the humid air.

Drift was undeniably, unmistakably in heat.

But Ratchet had never seen a mech go into heat directly after helping another mech through their own. Drift's heat protocols should've been totally overridden by that! "That isn't even  _possible_ ," Ratchet said angrily, although he couldn't have said exactly what he was angry about.

Drift let out a sound that was clearly supposed to be a laugh but that came out as more of a sob. "T-tell that to my p-p-programming," he said, shuddering from helm to pedes as the icy cleanser poured over him.

Ratchet was already running a long-range diagnostic scan on him before he'd even consciously decided to do so. His medic programming was still half offline, but at least he got a little information, and none of it was comforting. Drift's field was rioting out-of-control as he panted in a useless effort to dispel the rising heat in his systems. Even though Drift had set the cleanser temperature to its most frigid setting, his core temperature was alarmingly high, and it wasn't helping that Drift had all his vents sealed shut. "You're overheating yourself–why won't you open your vents?" Ratchet demanded, but that wasn't the question he wanted to ask so he pressed on without giving the swordsmech time to answer. "Slagging  _pit_ , Drift, why didn't you say something? First Aid's been in and out of here nonstop, he could've helped you!"

This time the sound Drift made came out nothing at all like a laugh. He shifted on the grating and something rolled over the floor toward Ratchet. The medic automatically picked it up–a syringe with just a trace of some blue liquid in it. He set his oral chemoreceptors to  _analyze_  and touched the barest drop to his glossa. Just as he'd suspected, it was a powerful heat suppressant.

This medication… it should've worked. It was much stronger than what Ratchet had been using on himself for the last two million years. Just how long had Drift been putting this off if  _this_  hadn't worked for him? "All right, one dose didn't do it, but sometimes we have to give more," Ratchet began, aiming for his usual soothing-medic tone, but Drift moved again and two more syringes rolled past his pedes.

The medic stared. "Three?" he said, his spark shrinking with dread. "You took three doses of a class 1 heat suppressant?"

Drift moved all the way to the side and shoved two more empties at him. "Five," he whispered, and now Ratchet shot beyond worried straight to panicked.

"Drift–!" he began, outraged, because the dose he'd taken was more than Ratchet would even recommend for a mech the size of Omega Supreme, and these medications were definitely not without side effects. One of those was happening right now, leaving Drift's mind intact without the cushioning fog of heat but letting him experience every instant of his body's craving. The wildness of his field was another, and his stuttering had Ratchet very afraid that he'd already damaged some wiring in his processor from excess built-up charge.

And those effects were minor compared to what could happen. Ratchet had seen one mech overdose on a milder suppressant and literally melt his own spark chamber when his thermoregulation protocols completely failed. Drift's high temperature frightened Ratchet badly. "Open your vents _right fragging now_  before you melt all your wiring! Who the frag  _gave_ you this much?" he demanded. His subordinates should  _damn well know better_  and when he found out which one of them had given Drift such a dangerous overdose, he was going to–

"G-got it m-myself on Hedonia," the swordsmech admitted, and now Ratchet had to clench both fists to stop himself from throttling him.

"You can't self-medicate with this kind of thing!" he snapped, worry making him beyond furious at the swordsmech. "Drift, you can burn out your circuits with the wrong dose of this stuff! You–"

He swallowed his tirade when Drift tucked his helm against the wall and started to sob. The frightened, broken sound hit Ratchet right in the spark and in that moment, he would've done anything, absolutely anything in his power to make it stop.

And then it got worse. "I can't do this," Drift wept, fists clenching, and Ratchet belatedly realized that there was a reason he hadn't turned around to face Ratchet when the medic had entered the washracks. "I can't do this again!"

Drift had cuffed himself to the floor grate.

A sinking dread replaced the fury in Ratchet's spark. The heat protocols would be urging him to go out and mingle with other mecha, to advertise his readiness for mating and trigger another courtship fight, and resisting that imperative would  _hurt_. Still, Drift was doing everything he possibly could to fight the coding despite how much it had to be hurting him to resist it. Locking himself in place, sealing his vents to keep the pheromones in, half-drowning himself beneath this torrential spray to diminish what escaped despite the seals, overdosing on suppressants, the terror and desperation saturating his field…

_Doesn't matter who won._

_He's not a damn frag toy!_

_No one's doing that to you, Ratchet…_

Ratchet had been through his heat cycle twice before, and every time he'd been treated gently, but he hadn't been naive in a very long time. Mecha in heat were easy targets and Drift had spent most of his life in unsafe places. This reaction… it could only mean one thing. "Oh, Drift," Ratchet whispered, wishing that he could reach out and pull the speedster into his arms and comfort him, to promise him that he'd take care of him.

But he couldn't. Drift was well past the point where a touch would trigger him to imprint, and it would be disastrous if the swordsmech imprinted on him. Imprinting on their mate increased a mech's receptiveness to touch and interface, but the flip side was that it made any other mech's touch very nearly intolerable.

And Drift  _needed_  another mech. Ratchet's interface protocols were offline, his spike completely disabled by his own post-heat stupor, and there was no overriding that. No matter how much he wanted to take care of Drift as well as Drift had cared for him, Ratchet was physically incapable of giving him what he needed.

Drift wrapped his free arm around his head and sobbed, squeezing his helm crest until his knuckles creaked. "Help me," he begged, a shivering, terrified, desperate mess on the floor, and Ratchet's spark broke because he  _couldn't_  help him.

The best he could think of was to at least spare him the indignity and public spectacle of a courtship battle. Ratchet opened his mouth to ask if Drift wanted him to call Rodimus–the captain was Drift's best friend–but bit the offer back at the last instant, remembering what First Aid had told him. Rodimus had gone into heat himself, triggered by Ratchet's own pheromones, and he would be no more help to Drift than Ratchet was.

And the medic had no idea who else to suggest. Drift didn't have many friends on the  _Lost Light,_  truth be told. His trust was not easily given, and his crewmates' forgiveness hadn't been easily earned. "Tell me who you want to do this for you," Ratchet finally said, hating the words as they passed his lips, but this was all he could do for Drift. The very least he owed Drift was to do what Drift had done for him. "I'll make sure you get whoever you want. Tell me a name, any name, and I'll make it happen."

"You," Drift whispered, and even though Ratchet had expected that, it still hit him like a punch to the spark.

_Gentle, patient care, meeting his every need, easing away all his pains._

_Kisses and impossible words pressed into his palms._

…  _swear I'll make you glad you chose me, gonna take care of you, give you everything you need, anything you want…_

Ratchet had never felt so awful in his entire life. "I  _can't_ ," he said as gently as he could. "Oh, Drift, I wish I could." And he meant it.

Drift's sobbing intensified. "Then n-no one," he gritted, fingers curling around the chain that locked him to the floor. "Leave m-me here. I'll w-wait it out, it'll pass–"

"Sweetspark, you know better than that," Ratchet murmured. He didn't want to be cruel but Drift couldn't be in denial about this. If he didn't give the coding what it wanted, his symptoms would only get worse. Mecha could die from heat denial. "You need someone… someone else to help you." The words were hard to say and it was even harder to watch Drift's reaction to them.

"No one else," Drift insisted, fear and loathing and despair vibrating through his field strongly enough to make Ratchet feel physically ill. He cried harder. "Please d-don't let them h-have me, please don't make me, Ratchet,  _please!_ "

His terror made the medic ache to hold him, soothe him, swear that he wouldn't let anyone else touch him–every single thing Ratchet couldn't do. "Shh, Drift, shh, it'll be all right, I promise," he implored, reaching out and checking himself at the last moment. "I won't let anyone hurt you, but you need–you need something I can't give you right now. If you don't, you could di–"

" _No one else!"_  Drift screamed, his field adamant, and Ratchet couldn't push him any further, not while he was in such distress. The weeping swordsmech curled up even tighter as if he was trying to disappear. Freezing cleanser sizzled on his overheated frame and splashed over Ratchet, making the medic shudder and ache from the temperature differential, but he didn't move back. He couldn't. "Knew this was t-too good to be t-t-true," Drift whispered as his sobs finally began to taper off. "Knew I'd have to p-pay for it."

Ratchet locked his hands behind his neck and squeezed hard. Guilt choked him.  _He_  was to blame for Drift's condition–and Rodimus, and Rewind, and who knew how many others? He'd put off his heat for his own convenience, knowing that this could happen when he finally reached the point of suppressant override, and he'd done it anyway. All this was his fault. "I'm sorry," he said, and his helplessness in the face of Drift's pain was one of the most agonizing moments of his life. "I'm so damn sorry."

"Worth it," Drift said immediately, fervently, "Worth it to b-be with you," and Ratchet had to grit his denta to keep from screaming.

 _Think, Ratchet!_  he growled internally. He racked his processor for any way to arrest a heat cycle once it had reached this point, but he'd never heard of it being done. Heats could be prevented to a certain degree, but once a mech was fully in its grip, the programming didn't release them until it got what it wanted or that mech was incapacitated by damage from heat denial.

Drift raised his hands to wipe his face–only one had enough freedom of movement to reach, and the clink of the chain hurt Ratchet to hear. "You should g-get out of the c-cold," the swordsmech whispered, shuddering as another explosive wave of his field seared across Ratchet's. "You n-need to be warm."

"I'm not leaving you, Drift," Ratchet said firmly, projecting his determination in his own field. "I am not leaving you to deal with this alone."

Distress saturated Drift's field in response, upset at the thought of Ratchet's discomfort. "Not good for you," he said, clearly making an effort to keep the tremors out of his voice. "Outrank you.  _Ordering_  you to go get w-warm!"

"Nice try, kid," Ratchet replied gently as his spark contracted in his chest. Drift was in this condition and he was _still_ trying to care for Ratchet. What had he ever done to deserve this kind of devotion? "This is a medical emergency, and that means right now, I outrank you and everyone else on this damn ship. I'm staying with you until we figure this out."

Drift choked out a laugh. "Stubborn," he whispered, and Ratchet grinned.

"Don't ever forget it," he agreed, but when that brief moment of amusement faded from Drift's field and the distress returned, he frowned. The last thing he wanted to do was make Drift feel worse. "If I go get a blanket, will you stop worrying about me?"

Drift nodded emphatically.

Ratchet sighed. He didn't want to leave Drift for even a moment, but the cold really was bothering him, and he couldn't afford to set back his own recovery. He wouldn't be able to do anything for the swordsmech if he didn't keep himself going, too. "All right," he said, trying to get back to his feet without struggling too obviously–less for his pride and more to keep from upsetting Drift further. "I'll get a damn blanket and come right back. And don't bother trying to lock me out again. I can open any door on this ship. Got it?"

Drift nodded again, huddling in a pitiful, shuddering ball beneath the freezing spray. Ratchet finally managed to get up and tried not to look at Drift–it was painful to see him like this. "I'll be back in a minute. I promise, I'm coming right back," he told him again, and forced himself to walk out.

The door slid shut behind him as soon as he stepped out but the red light didn't flash on. Drift hadn't given the command to lock it. Ratchet rubbed both hands over his face, cursing silently in every language he knew while he swayed on his feet and fought against a wave of dizziness. Vector Sigma, what a disaster. How was he going to help Drift like this?

… the honest answer was that he wasn't. He couldn't, not in the way Drift needed, and it was tearing him up.

But he couldn't afford to feel guilty. Drift needed care and he needed it immediately, so Ratchet focused on that and shoved everything else down deep. He pushed away from the washracks door and headed toward Drift's couch. A heating tarp was draped over the back and it was a lot closer than the berth. When he had gotten a few steps away from the door, far enough that he was pretty sure Drift wouldn't pick up on the transmission, he opened a comm line.  _::First Aid, come in. I have an urgent situation here and I need your help.::_

 _::Ratchet?::_ his second responded almost immediately. _::What happened? Where's Drift? Send me your vitals, I'm on my way!::_

 _::It's not about me,::_  Ratchet said quickly.  _::It's–::_

First Aid growled over the comm.  _::Are you_ kidding _me? Fragging selfish idiots on this ship, I can't believe someone called you for a medical situation right now! I swear to Primus, you tell me who's bothering you when you're supposed to be_ resting _and I'll weld their–::_

 _::Drift's gone into heat and I need you to help me figure out a way to stop it,::_  Ratchet interrupted before the other doctor could get on a roll.  _::Urgently.::_

That shut First Aid up entirely. Ratchet made it to the couch and leaned against the back of it to rest for a moment–he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to get up again if he sat down.  _::Aid?::_

 _::That's… that's not possible,::_  Aid finally replied, sounding every bit as shocked as Ratchet had been.  _::Are you sure?::_

Ratchet sent an encrypted data packet to him–Drift's medical scan, brief and incomplete, but more than enough for a conclusive diagnosis.  _::Kind of familiar with the symptoms,::_  Ratchet said dryly as he dragged the blanket around his shoulders. Frag, that was better.  _::Had myself a little refresher course on the condition recently.::_

Aid was quiet for a moment and Ratchet knew he was reviewing the data, searching hard for any other explanation.  _::This shouldn't be happening,::_  he finally said, but he didn't waste any more time on denial. Medics had to deal in what _was,_ not what  _should be_ , and the facts were clear.  _::I don't know what you want me to tell you, Ratchet. He needs to imprint on a mate and interface. There's not another solution. He's already past the point where we could stop this.::_

Ratchet sighed heavily. He wished he could say he'd expected any other reaction.  _::He's not going to do that, 'Aid,::_  he said quietly.  _::I think 'facing would do almost as much damage to him as not 'facing.::_

The junior doctor went quiet again, and Ratchet knew that he understood what Ratchet couldn't say out loud. Medics didn't stay ignorant of the depths of depravity to which their fellow mechanisms could sink for long.  _::And there's absolutely no one he could stand to-::_ First Aid said in a tone that confirmed that he knew exactly why Drift was so adamant.

 _::No,::_ Ratchet said. There was no point in telling Aid that Ratchet himself was Drift's only choice.  _::Trust me, I tried to convince him.::_

 _::Give me a little time to think about this,::_  he finally said, and Ratchet closed his optics with relief. First Aid was deeply interested in new and cutting-edge medical treatments. His processor worked in ways Ratchet couldn't even consider. If anyone could come up with a solution for Drift's heat that didn't involve interface, it was him.  _::I'll get back with you as quickly as I can.::_

 _::Thank you,::_  Ratchet said, meaning it. He started back toward the washracks but paused as another wave of fatigue swamped him.  _::And send something up here for me, will you? I can't afford to be down like this, not right now. Send me some stimulants and a data-patch to get my medic protocols up again, and don't even start with me,::_  he added warningly when he heard First Aid gasp, clearly preparing to argue.  _::I'm still Chief Medical Officer and I'm making that an order. Get me back on my pedes.::_

 _::Yes_ sir, _Ratchet sir,::_  First Aid said crisply, a wealth of protest in those four words.

Ratchet bit his glossa to keep from snapping back–so long as the junior doctor did what he was told, Ratchet didn't give half a damn whether or not he agreed with it. _::Good. I'll expect to hear from you soon. Ratchet out.::_

And he paused only long enough to grab one more thing before trudging back to the washracks, to sit helplessly beside Drift and try to figure out what in the smelter they were going to do now.


	5. As the World Falls Down

Drift huddled under the cold downpour and listened hard, trying to hear Ratchet moving around out there, but he couldn't hear a thing over the high-pitched ringing in his audials and the pounding of the cleanser spray.

Ratchet shouldn't  _be_ moving around out there. He should still be in berth, resting,  _recovering_ , and it was all Drift's fault that he wasn't.

Drift tried his best to cut off that thought. There was only so much misery and self-loathing he could handle at a time, and he was just about at his limit right now. Besides, Ratchet was going to do exactly what Ratchet wanted to do. First Aid had even warned Drift not to expect Ratchet to be a good patient when Drift had begged to be allowed to care for him during his stupor instead of sending him to the medbay. He'd warned Drift that the CMO would be up and moving the instant he could stand, no matter what anyone else had to say about the matter. Ignoring his own needs and putting others first was his way of life. Ratchet would probably be pushing himself like this even if Drift hadn't gone into heat.

It was a good argument and it made sense. It was probably even true, but Drift still couldn't quite forgive himself for putting yet one more stressor on the medic's overtaxed system.

Primus  _damn_  it, he'd tried so hard to do this right! Drift pressed his helm against the bulkhead, wanting to bang it instead and punish himself for ruining the best thing that had ever happened to him, but knowing Ratchet would hear it if he did. He'd probably hurry back in to check on Drift, and he already had the medic worried enough. Distressing Ratchet was the very  _last_  thing he'd intended to do. All Drift had wanted was to pamper him, treat him like the treasure that he was, do everything for him that the medic refused to do for himself and shower him with every single good thing Drift knew how to give. Ratchet gave so much, cared for everyone, and Drift wanted to take care of _him_  for once. He wanted to utterly indulge him as much and for as long as Ratchet would possibly let him.

And maybe, if he did it well enough, Ratchet would… well, Drift would be lying if he tried to say he hadn't hoped that Ratchet might see him in a different light after this. No longer the worthless wreck of an addict whose spark he'd saved back in the Dead End, no longer the former Decepticon assassin who'd taken Ratchet's gift of life and used it to deal out death after death, no longer the desperate mech who tried too hard to find absolution and forgiveness for all he'd done as Deadlock. All he wanted was for Ratchet to look at Drift and just see  _Drift._

Maybe he would see someone worthy of his friendship. Maybe, just maybe, if Drift was very, very good, he'd see someone worthy of more than that.

Like any of that would ever happen now. Instead of caring for Ratchet, Drift had saddled him with the responsibility of caring for  _Drift_  before he'd even fully recovered from his stupor! His vents hitched and he closed his optics tight against a wave of despair. So much for  _giving_  to Ratchet–looked like all Drift was good for was  _taking_.

Drift shoved that thought away. He couldn't think about that right now, not unless he wanted Ratchet to come back and find him crying like a complete fragging idiot again. He was already humiliated enough without that.

Much better to think about the last few days. Just thinking about what he and Ratchet had done together before Drift had screwed everything up was enough to crank his already-dangerous temperature even higher and Drift forced his body to uncurl a little so the cold spray could reach more of his plating. Wincing as steam rose from his armor, Drift cast his processor back, savoring the memories of these impossible, amazing days.

He swore he could still taste that first kiss when they'd arrived in his hab suite, a kiss he'd dreamed of ever since the Dead End. 

It had been far, far better than he'd ever _imagined_.

And he'd tasted a lot more than just Ratchet's lips. Drift closed his optics as his heat coding intensified his arousal and these memories weren't going to do a damn thing to help him calm down, but Vector Sigma, he couldn't help himself. He'd spent most of his life wondering what it would be like to make love to Ratchet, and now that he knew  _exactly_  how amazing it was, he'd have to be dead not to think about it.

But as wonderful as it had been to interface with Ratchet during his heat, the swordsmech had actually enjoyed caring for him after his heat just as much as he'd enjoyed helping him through it.

Perhaps even more. After all, any mech with a spike could frag a mech through their heat, but few could–or even wanted to–care for them afterward as well as Drift had tended Ratchet. Oh, he'd truly savored that, making the most of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to devote himself to satisfying Ratchet's every need, and he didn't even mind that Ratchet had slept through all of it. Didn't care if the medic never even knew about his efforts. For these few days, Drift had been able to pretend that Ratchet would've let him spoil him like this even if he  _had_  been fully aware.

As glorious as it had been to kiss and caress every inch of Ratchet's heat-flushed plating, it was every bit as satisfying to bathe him after his heat had passed. Drift had lavished the medic's body with meticulous attention until his armor sparkled and not a single smudge remained on his frame.

As much as he'd loved the overwhelmed bliss that overcame Ratchet's face and field when he overloaded, Drift equally loved the sight of him resting, optics closed, face tranquil, field peaceful and trusting as he recharged in the swordsmech's arms. He'd stayed awake just to savor it.

As erotic as it was to watch Ratchet writhe on the berth and hear him cry out with pleasure while they 'faced, it had been just as satisfying to hear him sigh in complete relaxation as Drift tenderly massaged away all the tension in his frame. He'd worked on Ratchet for hours, seeking out every little catch in his joints, every snarl in his wiring, every kink in his lines, and he always knew when he found a place that felt particularly good because Ratchet's field went positively liquid with pleasure. Drift would linger over those spots, working his fingers with tender persistence until the sore components loosened and Ratchet sighed like he'd never felt anything better than Drift's hands on his frame.

Oh, it was addictive. Drift had lost himself in it, hoping to provoke more of those beautiful reactions and thrilling every time he did. He could've massaged Ratchet like that all day.

If only his own damned heat hadn't chosen this moment to finally kick in, Drift  _would've_  kept going with that all day. Nothing was better than pleasing the mech he loved so completely, not even 'facing with him, and the long list of reasons Drift hated being in heat now had a brand new entry at number one–forcing him to stop touching Ratchet.

And by now Ratchet had been gone long enough for Drift to start worrying. He really shouldn't even be up, and even though Drift felt like he was cooking alive, he knew the washracks were frigid. First Aid had cautioned him about making sure that Ratchet's temperature stayed within a certain range and had warned him that too much deviation outside of that would harm his systems. Ratchet should never have come in here at all, much less stayed for as long as he had. He hadn't heard the sound of the medic falling–loud as the spray was, Drift was certain he'd have heard the crash of Ratchet's heavy, reinforced frame hitting the deck if he'd collapsed–but that didn't necessarily mean everything was fine. He pulled at the cuffs. His decision to throw the key down the drain had seemed good at the time–he was taking no chances of the coding marching him out to attract a mate–but now it meant he couldn't go out to make sure Ratchet was all right.

But luckily the medic returned before Drift could work himself up into a panic. The speedster gazed sharply up at him, searching for any sign of distress or damage. Apart from the medic's clear exhaustion, he found none. Ratchet even smiled at him when their optics met. "You look surprised to see me. Told you I'd be back, didn't I?" he said dryly. That crooked little smirk was more precious to Drift than anything that had happened over the last few days and he tried to save an image-capture, wanting to preserve that rare smile forever.

Something deep inside his helm buzzed hard enough to rattle his denta and his optics spat stinging sparks.

Everything went black.

"Drift!" Ratchet cried, and the swordsmech heard something hit the floor with a clang as the medic's footsteps rushed to the very edge of the drain grating.

"I'm f-fine," Drift said even though he couldn't see, because he couldn't stand the distress in Ratchet's voice.

"You're a damn liar is what you are," Ratchet growled, his voice very close now. Drift wanted to lean closer to him and pressed back against the bulkhead instead. There was no point in making Ratchet even more miserable by touching and imprinting on him, but by the Guiding Hand, how Drift  _wanted_  to touch him. It didn't even matter that Ratchet couldn't interface with him–Drift already knew that he was going to have to frag someone he didn't want, and imprinting on Ratchet could hardly make that any worse. He just wanted Ratchet to touch him again, to feel the medic's field blending with his, to experience that closeness one more time–wanted it with a hunger bordering on obsession. If he could just have that, Drift thought, it would be enough to get him through the rest of it.

Even Ratchet's angry growl of realization didn't dent that craving. "Dammit, Drift, why the frag are your vents still closed?" he snarled, and in any other situation, Drift was certain he'd have grabbed the swordsmech and shaken him in frustration. "I know damn well that I told you to open them up. Your temperature is skyrocketing and you're going to melt yourself from the inside out if you don't open your vents right now!"

Drift knew the medic was right, but fear held him immobile. Bad enough that the vent cover Rodimus had cracked during their fight still wouldn't seal properly, leaking pheromones into the air that he wasn't entirely sure the cleanser was hiding. He couldn't bring himself to deliberately release those chemical markers. Shaking now for reasons that had nothing to do with his malfunctioning thermoregulation or the icy cleanser spray, he shook his head in mute denial.

Ratchet sighed harshly and Drift could just imagine the glare. Surprisingly, though, when the medic spoke again, his voice was soft. "Drift, your heat signals can't affect me right now, and I've locked down your quarters under quarantine protocol. You're safe, do you understand? No one can come in without my approval and nothing leaves this hab suite until I lift the lockdown, and that includes the atmosphere. No one's going to scent you but me so  _please open your vents and cool down_. Don't make me sit here and watch you fry your systems."

Ratchet's unexpected gentleness and understanding made Drift obey without thinking. The wave of cold air rushing into his vents nearly shocked him into stasis. Icy cleanser poured through the openings and splashed over his internal structures, vaporizing instantly on red-hot components. Drift screamed, writhing on the floor, trying to escape the agony. He thought he heard Ratchet calling out to him, or maybe just shouting at him, but his audials were malfunctioning now, too. His field readers glitched, delivering a shockingly intense awareness of Ratchet's desperation and helplessness and fear. Drift opened his mouth to tell Ratchet that he was fine and all that came out was a binary screech of static.

Drift wasn't sure how long it took before his sensory input began to come back online. His audio receptors returned first and an insistent voice demanded his attention, calling out to him nonstop. "Drift– _Drift!_  Slag it all, kid, don't do this, please don't do this,  _First Aid, get down here right now, I need help, he's crashing!_ Drift, I swear to the Matrix that if you die I will follow you to the Well and drag you back myself, do you hear me? No no no, come on, kid, stay with me, dammit.  _DRIFT!_ "

He couldn't answer but he moaned as his optics rebooted, flickering and unsteady. The swirling, corrupted visual input made his tanks turn over with nausea. His fuel churned and he retched. The world tilted and he voided his tanks down the grating as his optics glitched and sparked.

At last the fluctuations stabilized enough for him to see again, but he couldn't make sense of the input at first. Drift stared up into a bright halo around a shadow. He blinked, trying to understand the angle, before realizing that the shadow was the underside of Ratchet's jaw.

The medic was leaning over him and glowing like an avatar of Primus Himself.

That was a vision from a fantasy right there, but then Drift realized the iridescent corona around Ratchet was actually the overhead light refracted through mist from the frigid cleanser striking his plating. Alarmed, Drift reached out to push him out of the spray. The sharp tug of the cuffs around his wrist stopped him from making contact and he tried to raise his other hand, not  _caring_ if he imprinted and made it all worse on himself so long as he kept Ratchet safe from harm.

But his other arm was pinned awkwardly by something and he couldn't move it, either. "G-get out-t of t-t-the c-cold," Drift demanded, or tried to demand–it came out as a stuttering, staticky whisper, but he glared to make sure Ratchet got the message. Even with the waterproof heating tarp wrapped snugly around Ratchet's shoulders shielding him from most of the cleanser, there was no way this was healthy for a mech coming out of stupor. "N-not g-g-good f-f-for you!"

Ratchet's optics sharpened and Drift braced himself for a blast of anger, but it didn't come. A wave of intense relief washed through the medic's field and Ratchet closed his optics hard for a moment. "Frag it all, Drift, don't you  _ever_  scare me like that again," he whispered fiercely, hugging him hard.

_Hugging him._

Drift gasped as he belatedly realized that the medic was sitting right on the washracks floor with him, holding Drift on his lap, arms wrapped tight around him. Drift hadn't been able to move his arm to push Ratchet out of the cold because it was trapped between their bodies, held immobile to prevent him from dislodging Ratchet's diagnostic cables that were plugged into the medical ports on his forearm. His awareness of Ratchet's field returned with a rush and now he realized that the intensity of it had nothing to do with his heat- and overdose-related malfunctions.

Their fields were firmly enmeshed once again. Drift had imprinted on him.

"R-r-r-" He tried to say the medic's name, but his vocalizer was shorting out and he couldn't get the name out. Tears came back to his eyes, triggered by the concern in Ratchet's field and a wave of longing from his own that had nothing at all to do with his heat coding. "Y-y-you–"

"Shh, don't talk, I've got you," Ratchet said, reaching up and wiping moisture off Drift's faceplates, and the speedster couldn't find the energy to care if it was from the cleanser or if he'd started crying again. Ratchet's gentle touch was the only thing in the galaxy that mattered. "It'll be all right. You're going to be all right, Drift. We're going to figure this out. I'll find a way. I've got you. You're safe."

And for the first time since his heat coding had activated, Drift believed it.

Drift tucked his throbbing helm beneath Ratchet's chin and tried to quiet his rioting body as the medic rocked him in his arms. Oddly enough, Ratchet's EM field helped. Now that he'd imprinted on a mate, Drift's heat-coding was pumping arousal through his interface array, priming him for fragging and lots of it. Normally Ratchet's heat-coding would be doing the same to him, and their enmeshed fields would heighten their arousal with every moment they were in contact, but the medic's interface protocols were offline right now.

That gave the coding nothing to work with.

Instead of exacerbating Drift's arousal to a painful level, Ratchet's field was a balm. He huddled against the medic's chest, wrapping himself in the wonderful projections–yes, there was worry there, a  _lot_ of worry, but beneath the medic's concern lay caring, tenderness,  _calm._  Drift's own coding responded to the lack of desire by increasing his output of arousal-inducing pheromones, trying to inflame his mate's lust, but Drift found that by focusing on Ratchet's field, he could actually force the nearly overwhelming ache of need in his valve to the back of his processor.

It was a blessing he couldn't have ever hoped for.

But mixed into Ratchet's field was also a strong sense of guilt, and Drift couldn't stand that. Remembering that the medic was chirolingual too, he tugged and pulled at his trapped arm until Ratchet grabbed his hand to hold it still. Drift immediately laced his fingers between Ratchet's.  _[Thank you]_  he signed, hoping that his own field could convey the depths of his relief and gratitude that those two words could never adequately express.

Ratchet sighed and squeezed his hand–not a message, just comfort. "Aren't you angry with me?" he murmured, his field sending remorse loud and clear. "I shouldn't have touched you but I wasn't thinking about you imprinting on me. I'm so  _fragging_  sorry, Drift. Should've let you choose someone who could help you."

 _[Already chose you]_  Drift signed emphatically, because he could never be angry for this.  _[You_ are _helping / feels better with you like this / calmer]_

Ratchet's projections changed to intense relief. He shifted the swordsmech on his lap, putting Drift more fully under the spray again, and he frowned.  _[You need to get out of the cold]_ he signed, worrying about the shivers he felt in the medic's frame.

"Stop that, I'm fine. Don't you have enough to worry about without worrying about me too?" Ratchet snapped, his tone impatient and exasperated while his field sent  _embarrassed_  and  _stubborn_  in equal measure.

Drift was insistent.  _[First Aid said you shouldn't get cold]_

"Frag what First Aid said, I'm still the CMO. Anyway, holding you right now is like cuddling a volcano," Ratchet said impatiently. " _Please_  stop trying to take care of me."

 _[I liked taking care of you]_  Drift replied, and frowned when Ratchet's embarrassment surged to drown out every other emotion in his field. He wondered why the medic seemed ashamed of having his own needs recognized and met.  _[Someone needs to / you don't]_

Ratchet coughed and shifted again, and he was pretty sure the medic was glaring, too. "Yeah, well," he said gruffly, clearly hiding behind his grumpy demeanor to cover that he didn't have any idea how to respond to that. "Right now it's my turn, so quit nagging me about the cold and let _me_  take care of _you_ for a while, will you?"

Drift couldn't resist teasing.  _[When's it my turn again]_

Ratchet snorted. "You can give me a massage and make me a pillow-nest any damn time you want, kid," he muttered, and Drift looked up sharply.

He  _remembered_  that?

But he didn't get a chance to sign anything back. The entry-request signal chimed and Ratchet released his hand, already starting to retract his diagnostic cables. "That'll be First Aid–I called him for help," he said as he carefully shifted the swordsmech out of his lap. Drift wanted to protest, to beg Ratchet not to leave him and argue that First Aid was perfectly capable of letting himself in, but the malfunction cascade in his processor had left him with barely enough strength to move. All he could do was submit to being put where the medic wanted him.

Still, his anxiety and confusion must've come through in his field or his expression because Ratchet stopped what he was doing to explain. "The entry code you gave him won't work because I initiated the quarantine protocols, remember? I have to let him in, but don't worry, I'm not leaving you. I'll be right back, I promise."

Drift's spark swelled with a complex mixture of fear and happiness as Ratchet gently but quickly arranged him so that the spray fell on his body without hitting him in the face. His emotions were as tangled as his scorched wiring. Drift didn't want Ratchet to go, but he did want him to get out of the chilly spray. He didn't want any other mech to touch him, but he knew he needed medical attention beyond what Ratchet could provide on his own.

Most of all, Drift didn't want anyone else to see him like this, weak and helpless, easy prey.

But he trusted Ratchet to keep him safe.

Oblivious to Drift's warring emotions, Ratchet pulled the heating tarp off of his shoulders. The swordsmech hissed and glared his disapproval of that, and Ratchet shook his head at him. "You hush that up. It's my turn now, remember?" he said as he used the wadded-up blanket to cushion Drift's head, tucking it gently beneath his sore audial. Then he reached behind him and pulled something over. Drift winced at the sound of metal scraping against the floor, but then his optics widened as Ratchet took Drift's uncuffed hand and pressed a sword hilt into it.

 _Ratchet had brought him his Great Sword._  

Drift clutched it tight, feeling the memory of his own strength in its aura, and wished his vocalizer would come back online just for a moment. Just long enough to tell Ratchet what this gesture meant to him and how much it comforted him.

But the medic clearly understood without any words needing to be said. The entry-ping sounded again, more urgently this time, but Ratchet squeezed Drift's fingers around the hilt and gave him that crooked half-smile as though they had all the time in the world. "You're safe, Drift. You  _won't_  need to use this, but I thought you might feel better if you had it. Hold on for just a minute. I'll be right back," Ratchet told him, and he struggled to his feet and stumbled out the door before Drift could so much as try to thank him.

But before the door could close behind him, Ratchet stopped and poked his head back in. "And if you even  _think_ about using that thing to hurt yourself, I promise you that I will hurt you worse. We'll find a solution, but that isn't it. I need your word that you won't do anything stupid," he growled. He glared into Drift's optics until the swordsmech solemnly inclined his head over the hilt of his sword, silently promising not to do anything the medic would disapprove of. Ratchet nodded sharply, and then he was gone.


	6. In This Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER:
> 
> This is where you find out what happened to Drift that made him so terrified of being in heat. The incident is not described, there are no flashbacks, but if a very brief nonexplicit mention of prior sexual abuse/rape is going to trigger you, please, do whatever it takes to keep yourself safe.

Ratchet waited until he was out of Drift's sight to lean heavily against the wall and close his optics. He muffled a groan, wondering how long it would be until the room stopped spinning. Oh, that had  _not_  been the smartest thing he'd ever done, not even close to a good idea.

The entry ping sounded again, several times in a row actually, but Ratchet couldn't move yet. His entire frame ached, he only knew which way was up from visual input, and his left leg had developed a shake he couldn't stop.  _First Aid fragging better have brought me something for this stupor,_  he thought, knowing damn well that post-heat stupor was less than half the reason for his current set of problems.

Still, it wasn't like he'd had any choice. Doing nothing and watching Drift burn himself out was not an option.

This time the sound that jarred his thoughts wasn't an entry request ping, it was an alarm that indicated a rejected hacking attempt. A secondary reinforced layer snapped into place over the doorway and Ratchet looked up, startled. That wasn't standard for this ship. Why had Drift felt the need to add that?

But he didn't have time to think too much about that before the screech of some kind of cutting tool filled the room. Even through two layers of metal, it was  _very_  loud.

Apparently First Aid had given up on Ratchet coming and was now trying to force his way in.

Ratchet groaned. Ready or not, it was time to move. He couldn't allow the door to be destroyed. It needed to be intact to maintain the quarantine seals, and just in case the crew found out about Drift's condition, Ratchet wanted a full-strength barrier to keep everyone  _out_.

He belatedly realized that First Aid had been trying to raise him on the com for some time now and accepted the call.  _::I'm here, I'm coming, keep your damn plating on,::_  he growled, straightening up with an effort and restarting the trek through the unstable room to the door.  _::Quit trying to break in and give me a minute to get there, will you?::_

 _::Ratchet! Why the pit weren't you answering? We've been frantic!::_ First Aid demanded, angrier than Ratchet had ever heard him.  _::And why in Primus' name did you trip the Level 5 quarantine? It takes the approval of three command officers to override a Level 5 without the CMO and we don't even have three command officers_ available _on the whole fragging ship right now. A Level 3 would've kept everyone out but medical staff. This way makes you the only one who can open that door!::_

 _That's why,_  Ratchet thought, but he didn't say it. Best not to flat-out tell First Aid that he didn't trust him or anyone else around Drift right now. He had a reputation for being blunt, but that was a level of rude that wasn't called for.  _::I'm coming,::_  he repeated instead, and finally reached the door. He slapped his hand against the digital reader. "Chief Medical Officer Ratchet authorizing quarantine override," he said as he felt the tingle of it reading the ident codes in his field.

The blast shield retracted and the door slid open. A red-and-white plated medic ducked in, dragging a fully-loaded crash cart after him–and it wasn't First Aid, it was  _Ambulon_. Ratchet stared at the junior medic even as he automatically re-engaged the quarantine protocols, wondering why First Aid had sent him instead of coming himself. "Where's Drift? What is his condition?" Ambulon demanded before Ratchet could ask, already scanning the room for the swordsmech.

Yeah, there was no way Ratchet was going to answer that question until he asked one of his own. "He's out of immediate danger. Are you on prophylaxis?" Ratchet said bluntly, because if Ambulon wasn't, there was no way in pit Ratchet was letting him get one single millimeter closer to the washracks door. Ratchet was no lightweight as a fighter, especially for a medic, but right now he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag. The last thing he needed was to get into a courtship battle for Drift that he couldn't win.

"Don't need it," Ambulon replied, and Ratchet's hand was already moving to the door controls with the full intention of shoving the ex-Decepticon right back out of the hab suite when Ambulon elaborated. "I don't have interface protocols, Ratchet. Forged without 'em and never felt the need to add 'em. I couldn't do anything to Drift even if I wanted to, which I don't. Trust me, he's safer with me than with any other mech on this ship."

Ratchet stopped mid-reach and blinked at him. He'd heard of mecha who had no interface drive before, sure, but it was rare. Ambulon seemed to expect his surprise because he offered Ratchet his forearm with his diagnostic hatch already popped. "Check my coding." When Ratchet hesitated, Ambulon beckoned impatiently. "It's clear that you're not going to let me get near him until you do and I think you'll fall over if you try to fight me, so please just  _check my damn coding_ so I can do what I came here for, all right?"

Ratchet started to refuse–checking another mech's programming was a very intrusive thing to do, especially when it came to something like their interface preferences–but he stopped himself. This wasn't about Ratchet personally trusting Ambulon to be honest. This was about his duty of care to Drift, the responsibility Ratchet had assumed to keep him safe while he was helpless to defend himself from unwanted advances, and the swordsmech's abject terror was branded in the CMO's mind.

Ratchet might be willing to take Ambulon's declaration on faith, but Drift needed him to be sure.

He sighed and released his diagnostic cable. "I do believe you," Ratchet told Ambulon, but he plugged in anyway. Ambulon led him straight to the blank space where his interface protocols should be, and Ratchet didn't linger after confirming their absence.

"It's why I'm here instead of First Aid," Ambulon told him while Ratchet disconnected and retracted his cable. "When you initiated the quarantine protocols, we started getting atmospheric sample readings down in the medbay. Between you and Drift, the pheromone levels in here are extreme. Aid's got himself and the back-up medical staff all on prophylaxis but you know that sometimes the meds don't work. The last thing we need is to be down another medic while there are still courtship fights going on, and I'm immune."

Ratchet winced with a new stab of guilt at the news that even more mecha had been triggered. Yeah, he'd certainly done a number on his crewmates with his unchecked heat.

Then again, it wasn't entirely his fault. Lots of mecha had chosen to delay their heat cycles during the war. Ratchet wouldn't have set off so many others if they weren't already overdue. "Who else?" he asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know.

"Turbine's the latest," Ambulon said. "His fight's going on right now. We've got the medbay prepped to receive casualties and we've activated Perceptor, Huffer, Rung, and Gears as additional medics. We thought we were about to get Chromedome too but it turns out he's the one who went into heat, not Rewind, and he's just entered his stupor. He'll be out of commission for at least several more days. At least Rewind's taking care of him and that helps a little, but the medbay's packed."

The CMO shuddered at the thought of another heat-fight going on right now. That was definitely not information he was going to share with Drift. Still, at least one mech on this ship was immune to the disaster he'd set off, and he was damn glad that Ambulon had joined the  _Lost Light_  after Delphi.

Ambulon was still speaking. "Now as interesting as all this gossip is, how about you take me to Drift now? Cuz last thing we heard out of here was you shouting that he was crashing, and–" He abruptly stopped speaking and leaned closer to Ratchet. He sniffed and didn't even try to hide it. "Why do you smell like burnt wiring?"

"Tell you later," Ratchet said, moving back and trying not to stumble when he did it.

"Ratchet,  _what did you do?_ " Ambulon growled in a very good imitation of Ratchet's own  _don't mess with me_  tone, but Ratchet had invented that tone and wasn't about to be intimidated by it.

"Later," he repeated firmly, and plunged on before Ambulon could demand a better answer than that. "Did you bring a master cuff key like I asked?"

Ambulon glared at him but Ratchet had stared down multiple Primes and the junior medic had no chance. Finally he sighed and pulled something from his subspace. "Do I want to know why you need this?"

Ratchet snatched it from his hand. "Doubt it," he replied, but before he could decide if he was going to explain or not, he felt a faint nudge from Drift's field. He closed his optics and instinctively focused on the faint signal–he shouldn't be able to sense Drift from a room away, but their fields had still been closely attuned from Ratchet's heat even before they'd imprinted again. Right now he was sensitized to Drift's EM projections to a degree he'd never experienced before.

Drift was getting nervous. Ratchet had been gone longer than he'd expected, and hearing another mech's angry voice nearby while he was so weak was frightening.

Ratchet concentrated and sent back a wave of wordless, confident reassurance, hoping to convey that everything was fine, he had it all under control, and that Ratchet was not about to let anything happen to him.

Drift's field ebbed away, still anxious, but comforted.

Ambulon was staring straight at him when Ratchet opened his optics again. "He's imprinted on you, hasn't he," he said, his tone making it clear that it wasn't a question. Ratchet started to ask how he knew and he just raised an eyebrow. "I couldn't read any of that but it felt like standing next to a lightning strike. Ratchet–"

"Don't start," Ratchet growled, knowing damn well he had been stupid to touch Drift while his interface protocols were still offline. He was already beating himself up enough about that, thank you very little, and he didn't need Ambulon telling him something he already damn well knew, so he changed the subject again. "I told First Aid to come up with something to counteract this fragging stupor. What did you bring me?"

Ambulon stared at him for a long moment before he finally reached into his subspace and pulled out a data slug and a handful of syringes. Ratchet recognized two kinds of stimulants, a systems decontaminant, and a booster dose of trace metals among the syringes, and he assumed the data slug was an override patch to get some of his deactivated protocols back online. He reached for them–

–and Ambulon pulled them back. "Not so fast. I'm not giving you a damn thing until I know if you're sparked," he said flatly. "Personally I don't want to give you this at all, but you outrank me and that means you can be as recklessly stupid with your own health as you want. In fact, you're clearly off to a roaring start with that. But I don't care  _what_  your rank is, I won't be a part of you taking dangerous risks that might affect a sparkling. First Aid said you don't want to know your status and I can't order you to let me check you, but I can give you a choice. You can keep your ignorance and I'll keep these, or you can suck it up and give me your arm."

Ratchet felt like someone had just grabbed hold of his spark and squeezed. Oh, he was  _not_  ready for this information, not even the slightest bit ready for it, but one look into Ambulon's optics was enough to convince him that arguing would be a waste of time. The junior medic was not going to budge. Truthfully, Ratchet couldn't blame him–in Ambulon's place, he'd have done the same thing.

Understanding it didn't mean he had to like it, though.

But Drift needed him, and Ratchet was going to be no damn use at all to the swordsmech if he collapsed. At a certain point, all the stubbornness in the universe wouldn't be enough to keep him on his pedes. He felt dangerously close to that point already.

 _Fragging pit._  When it came to a contest between his denial and Drift's need, it was no choice at all. Ratchet snarled a curse and thrust his arm toward the other medic. Ambulon connected his diagnostic cable without a word and Ratchet closed his optics as he monitored the data feed.

_gestation chamber status: undamaged, protospark negative, reproductive nanites inactive, absorption in progress 38% complete, no errors_

The words echoed in his processor and Ratchet only realized he'd slid down the wall when his aft hit the floor. Ambulon didn't say anything, just knelt beside him and squeezed his shoulder in silent support as he continued his review of the CMO's systems. The intensity of Ratchet's relief to find out he wasn't sparked left him lightheaded. He had nothing against sparklings–he'd been sparked in his first heat, and while Ratchet saw Swoop less than he wished, he was proud of the mech he'd become and he knew Wheeljack kept a close eye on him. But now was not a good time and the  _Lost Light_  was hardly an ideal place to raise a sparkling. This quest had been more perilous than Ratchet had ever expected and Rodimus' leadership was… lacking direction, to put it mildly. Ratchet didn't want to bring a new spark into a situation with so little stability and so much danger.

He was a bit surprised to realize that the thought of Drift as the other creator didn't even rate a mention on his list of objections.

Ambulon chose that moment to hiss angrily. "Primus, what the frag did you  _do_ to yourself? You've got six blown fuses and your ground wiring is fried!"

Ratchet didn't bother onlining his optics. "If you know how, you can stop a burn-out by redirecting the excess charge through your diagnostic cable and discharging it safely through your own ground system," he said wearily. "I know how."

"Yeah, I'm not sure you do," Ambulon said as Ratchet felt him activating the reset triggers on his fuses one by one. It was a temporary measure and Ratchet knew they'd have to be replaced soon, but hopefully he could get through this crisis first. "At least not the _safely_ part. You nearly burned  _yourself_  out, Ratchet!"

"Yeah, well, it works a lot better when everything's dry, but Drift was on the washracks floor and I didn't have a lot of time. And it did work," Ratchet replied. In the end, that was all that mattered. Still, the memory of electricity crackling unchecked over Drift's frame reminded him of the severity of the speedster's condition. Ratchet may have taken some damage, but Drift had nearly offlined himself with that. If either of them needed medical attention, it was Drift, and Ratchet sent a wordless nudge along the hardline connection to urge Ambulon to hurry up with the treatment for his stupor.

The other medic grumbled but finished resetting his fuses and began to withdraw. "I'm giving you a double dose of repair nanites and I'm going to recommend to First Aid that you not return to duty until you've had a full systems overhaul–and  _do not_  argue with me," he snapped when Ratchet opened his mouth to protest. "First you transform on Delphi even knowing it'll give you a fatal disease. Now you plug into a mech who's shorting out  _while you're both soaking wet._  If it was up to me I'd relieve you of duty until you're cleared by Rung because you're starting to look like someone with a death wish, Ratchet."

That slag did not deserve a response and Ratchet didn't give it one. He briefly clenched his hands as though trying to physically hold onto his temper… the hands Drift had won for him back on Delphi.

The hands Drift had pleasured so thoroughly, then lavished with such tender care.

The hands Ratchet was absolutely not going to wrap around Ambulon's neck. "Did you and Aid come up with anything to end Drift's heat? He's adamant that he is not going to 'face with anyone," Ratchet said as Ambulon disconnected his cable and prepared to administer the medications he'd brought. He hoped the younger medic would assume it was because he'd imprinted on Ratchet instead of asking him any questions. That was Drift's to tell or not, as he saw fit. Bad enough that Ratchet had hinted strongly enough that First Aid had figured it out. He wasn't making that mistake again.

"Yeah, I know. Can't say I blame him," Ambulon replied, putting down the empty syringe that had held the trace metal booster and raising the next.

Shocked rage burst through Ratchet and he choked it down as quickly as he could before Drift sensed it in his field. He caught Ambulon's wrist and glared straight into the medic's yellow optics. " _What did First Aid tell you?_ " he demanded in a low growl, because Ratchet didn't know how Pharma had run his clinic but patient confidentiality was  _important_  to Ratchet, and if his second had broken that trust to gossip about Drift, Ratchet was  _by slag_  going to make him regret it.

Ambulon met his furious gaze calmly. "He didn't have to tell me anything, Ratchet. I was a Decepticon once, too. I know how it worked."

Ratchet stared at him, completely derailed. That was not at all the answer he'd expected.  _Don't ask,_  he told himself firmly.  _Do_ not _ask. There's no way that this is anything you want to know. Don't. Ask._

Ambulon tugged his wrist out of Ratchet's suddenly slack grip and went back to the syringes. "Autobots treat heat in a completely different way than the Decepticons did," he said, looking at what his hands were doing instead of holding Ratchet's gaze. "It's almost a sacred thing, even the heat-fights. Everyone is so protective of the mech in heat. No one would dare hurt them or try to 'face with them before their coding is primed to imprint on a mate. No one touches them until the fight's done. The losers accept their defeat instead of trying anything shady. The pair is left alone until the heat's done, all duties reassigned no matter how vital they are. They're cared for through their stupor, no matter how long it takes them to recover. The heat cycle trumps everything else."

He glanced up briefly, saw that Ratchet was hanging on his every word, and lifted the next syringe. "But the Decepticons saw heat as a distraction. Anything that prevented a mech from giving their all to the vital war effort was an affront to the cause. So when a mech went into heat, all Decepticon High Command cared about was getting it over with as quickly as possible so they could return to their duties."

Ratchet did not like where this was going. "The heat cycle can only be rushed so much," he said in a voice that didn't sound much like his own. "The coding doesn't stop until the gestation chamber reaches capacity, and even with drugs to prime a mech to hit overload faster, the frame only makes reproductive nanites at a certain rate. And a mech in heat won't accept anyone but their mate once they've imprinted."

"And that's why they weren't allowed to get to the point of imprinting on a mate," Ambulon replied quietly. "As soon as a Decepticon began to display signs of heat, the mecha in their unit…" He stopped, then met Ratchet's gaze with optics that held memories that burned. "They made sure that mech's chamber got filled up as fast as possible. And as far as post-heat stupor goes–" he gestured at the array of syringes, "–how do you think I know what to give you to override yours?"

 _No one else, please don't let them have me, please don't make me, Ratchet,_ please _!_

Ratchet closed his optics and shuddered as Drift's terrified begging replayed in his mind. His spark ached with sick rage and it took everything he had to keep it out of his field. If he hadn't wanted Drift to know he was angry with Ambulon, he  _truly_  did not want to do anything that might remind the swordsmech of this. He forced himself to concentrate on his commitment to protect Drift instead, and that wasn't hard to do. If he'd thought he was determined before, it was nothing compared to how protective he felt right now. "If Decepticon medics learned how to override the stupor," he said slowly, making a mighty effort to keep the horror from his voice, "did you ever find a way to override the heat coding itself? Stop it without interfacing at all?"

Ambulon looked truly sorry as he shook his head and began to draw up a large dose of repair nanites. "We developed a few tricks for preventing heat from taking hold if we caught it early enough, but we never found anything else that stops the coding once it's fully activated. Believe me, we tried all kinds of software patches and overrides, tried inflicting specific injuries to negate the code with damage, even tried medically inducing a coma, but nothing worked. Heat coding is persistent, as you know. It burned them up or shorted them out unless they 'faced someone, no matter what we did." He sighed, looking at the syringe in his hand as though unable to hold Ratchet's gaze. "I know you don't want to hear this, but Drift is past the point of no return. Best we can do for him is find someone gentle to take care of him. I know he's imprinted on you, but maybe we can give him enough anti-anxiety medications for the process not to be too traumatic–"

Ratchet banged the back of his head against the wall. "He won't do it," he said, mentally calling himself ten kinds of fool for touching Drift in the washracks. If he hadn't imprinted on Ratchet, maybe he could have accepted someone else… but what was Ratchet supposed to do, sit there and do nothing while Drift fried his processor before his optics? "Besides, he's got enough suppressants stressing his system now that I don't dare give him anything else unless we can do a systems flush first, and he took enough processor damage from that electrical cascade that I don't know if he could physically handle a–"

Wait.

_Wait._

Ratchet suddenly grabbed Ambulon's arm again. "You said you studied this. How specialized are the detection systems in the gestation chamber?" he asked as a germ of an idea sprouted in his mind.

The younger medic frowned. "Specialized enough to reject donated transfluid," he said slowly as though wondering where Ratchet was going with this. "We tried that–collecting donations of reproductive nanites and administering them instead. It never worked. The nanites are activated during overload and they don't stay viable long afterward unless they're in a specialized environment. The gestation chamber is hard to replic–"

Ratchet snatched the syringe from his hand. "Ambulon,  _these are active nanites._ "

Ambulon stared at him for a moment. Then his field surged with excitement. "You want to try to trick his heat coding by filling his chamber with repair nanites instead of reproductive ones?"

The CMO nodded. "It detects active, viable nanites, right? These fit that description," he said, waving the syringe again. "The only real difference between these and the nanites in transfluid is in their function, not in their form–repair nanites bond to damage to fix it while reproductive ones bond together into the sentio metallico to create a sparkling. That's a very fine distinction, Ambulon–they both  _build!_  If we adjust the liquid matrix to mimic the chemical composition of transfluid–"

"Ratchet, you are a fragging  _genius,_ " Ambulon said, his optics lighting up excitedly, and Ratchet sensed his com signal and assumed he was calling First Aid or Perceptor to get to work on it.

"I'm only a genius if it works," Ratchet said, getting to his feet and relieved to find that he could do so without the room spinning around his audials this time. He still didn't feel fully recovered, but Ambulon's treatment had at least banished his exhaustion and steadied his gyros. He jabbed the injection of repair nanites into the big fuel line at his throat with the ease of long practice as Ambulon took his other arm and plugged the data patch into his diagnostic port. "Don't say anything to him about it in case it doesn't, okay?"

Ambulon nodded, also standing. "Of course. Are you going to let me see him now?"

Ratchet sighed and beckoned him forward. "He's in rough shape, not just physically. Stay back until I tell you," he ordered as he crossed the room to the washracks. Ambulon nodded again and Ratchet took a moment to center himself.

Then he opened the door.


	7. Crawling In My Skin

Drift heard footsteps approaching the door and gripped the hilt of his Great Sword tighter. The heavy blade was useless to him right now, he had no illusions about that. He couldn't even lift it. Still, even if he couldn't use it to defend himself, just holding onto it made him feel so much stronger. The gentle glow of the gem in the hilt reminded him that his spark had been judged and found worthy of bearing this sacred weapon. He had been forgiven for his mistakes  _(even if he couldn't forgive himself)_  and given another chance by the Circle of Light, and this time, he'd used his new life to do good instead of evil. No matter what happened to his frame, he could survive it. He could start over again.

A fiercely protective EM wave rushed over him like a warm embrace the instant the door opened. A shadow filled the doorway. "It's all right, Drift, it's just me," Ratchet said, but Drift already knew. His shiver had nothing to do with the freezing cleanser still pouring over his frame as a wave of desire and gratitude and almost desperate longing filled his spark at the sight of the medic. He wasn't sure how much of that came from the heat coding that was causing havoc with his systems and how much was because of his own feelings for Ratchet, but the intense emotions were far more than he could possibly keep out of his field.

Drift tried to choke back his dismay. Whispering  _I love you_  to Ratchet while the medic was unconscious was one thing. Screaming it out in his field while Ratchet was wide awake and staring down at Drift as he lay helpless and pitiful on the floor, when he'd done nothing to indicate that he felt the same way? That was something completely different, and Drift wished the washracks grating would open up and swallow him whole.

But if the swordsmech's feelings bothered him, he didn't act like it. Ratchet's field gave no sign of disgust or offense as it blended with Drift's and the medic didn't hesitate to hurry to his side. Drift was relieved to see Ratchet kneel down smoothly, the unsteadiness and stumbling that had so worried him now gone. "I'm sorry, Drift," Ratchet murmured as he reached out and cupped Drift's cheek in one hand, and the speedster realized he'd misinterpreted the reason for Drift's emotional turmoil. "I'm sorry I left you alone for so long."

The affection and caring in Ratchet's gentle touch made Drift wish he could preserve the memory of this moment forever. He didn't try, though. It would be a long time before he forgot that buzz deep in his helm as part of his processor shorted out when he'd tried to save the image-capture of Ratchet's smile. Unable to speak, Drift let his field reply, sending projections of forgiveness and happiness to have Ratchet back with him.

Ratchet's thumb traced the line of his cheek strut as he slipped the fingers of his other hand between Drift's so he could sign to him. Drift could swear he felt those touches through his entire body. Heat rushed to his valve and he was abruptly glad that his vocalizer had shorted out so he couldn't moan. Even so, he had to clench his denta to keep from gasping, but Ratchet was speaking and Drift tried to pay attention.

And what he said chilled Drift to the core. "Drift, Ambulon is here to help you," Ratchet murmured, and Drift wanted to scream a denial. Of all the mecha on this ship, why,  _why_ did it have to be an ex-Decepticon? Ratchet squeezed his hand and went on, speaking quickly, softly. "You don't have to worry, all right? He's won't hurt you. He doesn't have an interface drive–you've heard of mecha who don't? He's just as incapable of responding to your heat signals as I am. Do you understand? He's safe."

Drift stared up at Ratchet, optics wide, hardly able to believe such a stroke of luck. In fact, he  _didn't_ believe it. Some mecha would do anything to get at a mech in heat, and tricking the CMO into letting him in so Ambulon could overpower the still-weak Ratchet and frag Drift would be a very Decepticon thing to do.

But Ratchet stroked his cheek again before he could sign any of that, and his field soothed Drift's suspicion with confident assurance. "I know what you're thinking, and I can't blame you for not wanting to take his word for it, but I'm giving you  _mine_. I know for a fact that he's telling the truth–he let me link in and confirm it in his programming. He has no interest in interfacing with you or anyone else. I promise that he's not going to do anything to hurt you. Can he come in?"

Everything in Drift screamed  _no._  He didn't want anyone around him but Ratchet, didn't trust anyone but Ratchet, and especially not a fragging  _Decepticon!_  But he looked up into the medic's calm blue optics and felt the reassurance of his field, and he tried to swallow the fear.

Ratchet wouldn't lie to him. If he said he'd checked Ambulon's programming and confirmed that he had no interest in fragging Drift, then he had.

And Drift was hardly in any position to judge someone for having a history with the Decepticons.

"I'll be right here with you the entire time. I'm not going anywhere," Ratchet reassured him as Drift continued to hesitate, and Drift knew Ratchet wouldn't let anything happen to him–the medic's field was adamant, unyielding as steel. Anything that wanted to touch Drift would have to go through  _him_  first, and post-heat stupor or not, getting past the Hatchet was no easy task.

Ratchet squeezed his fingers gently. "Please, sweetspark, I'm worried about you. If you can't trust him, trust  _me_. I swear you'll be safe. Please, let him help you."

 _Sweetspark._  It was the second time Ratchet had used that endearment and Drift didn't think he could refuse Ratchet anything while he was calling him that. And it didn't escape his notice how Ratchet kept emphasizing the word  _safe_ , clearly knowing that this was exactly what Drift needed to hear right now. Not to mention that every time Ratchet said it, his field pressed out with his firm determination to make it so.

Marshaling all his courage, Drift finally signed a very shaky,  _[I trust you]_  Even so, he couldn't help adding,  _[Please don't leave me / I don't want to be alone with him]_

It was humiliating, begging Ratchet to hold his hand like a frightened newspark, but Ratchet's smile held only relief, no judgment.  _[You won't be / I promise]_  Ratchet signed, his finger movements less practiced than Drift's but still perfectly understandable.

Drift savored the tiny caresses of the glyphs. It felt so good, made him yearn to feel those fingers elsewhere, and he tried hard to push his arousal aside again. It was getting a lot harder and being so close to the CMO wasn't helping. His frame burned with desire as his coding recognized his mate, and if Drift could move right now, he would probably tackle Ratchet to the floor even knowing the medic couldn't do anything for him. But  _Primus,_  he wanted him _so damn bad!_

Oblivious to his turmoil, Ratchet smiled again and held his gaze as he spoke over his shoulder. "Ambulon, you can come in." He squeezed Drift's hand as the other medic approached, and while the gesture might have looked like nothing more than comfort to anyone watching, Drift understood the single word he signed.

_[Safe]_

It was reminder and promise all in one glyph.

Ambulon appeared at Ratchet's shoulder. True to Ratchet's word, Drift felt no hint of arousal or desire in the junior medic's field and saw no lust in his optics although Drift knew the washracks reeked of his pheromones. Ambulon's manner was all business as he knelt beside Ratchet and released his diagnostic cable. "Drift, I need to plug in and scan you to determine the extent of your damage. Can you tell me your symptoms?"

 Even without any discernable reaction from Ambulon, a new rush of fear warred with Drift's rising arousal and briefly won. "His vocalizer's offline," Ratchet said, covering that Drift had completely frozen with panic at the thought of Ambulon actually plugging into him. Drift closed his eyes and pulled his Great Sword closer, pressing the gem close to his spark.  _Primus,_  he hated this, hated being afraid, hated being weak, hated being out-of-control, hated being  _helpless_ , hated every damn bit of this!

But Ratchet was right here, solid and reassuring, keeping his body between Drift and Ambulon like a shield, stroking Drift's cheek and holding his hand while his field surrounded the swordsmech in a warm blanket of comfort. Right now Ratchet's full attention was focused on Drift, and he had to correct himself.

He might hate all the rest of it, but this? Drift would endure  _anything_  to have this.

"It's most likely a fuse. Let me connect and I can probably fix that," Ambulon said reassuringly. "Then you can talk me through the rest, all right?"

Drift's fingers ached from squeezing his sword-hilt so hard. Everything in him instinctively recoiled from Ambulon, even if doing this meant he got his voice back.

And honestly, part of him liked that his inability to speak meant Ratchet had to hold his hand. He had always craved any kind of contact from Ratchet, but right now he felt like he needed it just to survive.

If anyone was going to connect to his system, Drift wanted it to be Ratchet. He opened his optics and looked up at Ratchet without trying to hide the desperation in his gaze.  _[Can't you do it]_  he signed, knowing it was selfish of him to ask but unable to help himself.

 _[Wish I could / my medical protocols are still mostly offline]_  Ratchet replied, his field reinforcing his apology with genuine remorse. Drift tried to hide his disappointment and how little he wanted Ambulon to mess with his systems right now, but it was a pointless effort. The imprinting meant that Ratchet could read every emotion that crossed his field. The CMO proved it with his next words. "Ambulon, how about you link through me? I can't do his scan or the procedures myself, but I can serve as a connection between the two of you. Would that be all right, Drift?" he added even though he had to have felt the surge of relief in the swordsmech's field.

 _[Yes]_  Drift signed, fingers trembling between Ratchet's, and it wasn't only because of fear. The thought of a physical connection with Ratchet, even if it was something as impersonal and routine as a medical diagnostic cable, made him want to moan with yearning. He was certain his lust was spilling out into his field and fought to control it, but dammit, it was  _hard._  He'd wanted Ratchet long before any of this and spending the medic's heat with him had only made Drift want him more. Add in his own heat…

… Primus, he was  _dying_  to get his hands on Ratchet, and he had to keep them to himself because Ratchet wasn't able to interface right now. It was torture, and throwing Ambulon at him on top of it all while he burned with need like this? Drift shuddered, and not in the sexy way.

Memories assaulted him of his frame revved while his processor and spark rebelled, clawing their way free from the deep hole where he'd buried them. He vented faster, panting as panic threatened to overwhelm him.

A surge of warmth broke through the wall of memories–Ratchet's field, surrounding him and dragging him back to the present.  _[You are safe / I am here and you are safe]_  Ratchet signed, and Drift realized he'd been signing it over and over again as the medic pulled him back from the well of despair. Drift couldn't think of any words he could reply that would express what he was feeling now, so he squeezed Ratchet's hand and held on tight.

"He's all right," Ratchet said, and Drift realized Ambulon had spoken. He hadn't even heard the other medic's words. "Just wait. He's all right."  _[You tell me when you're ready]_  he signed.  _[Take as long as you want]_

Drift concentrated on venting slowly and deeply until he no longer felt like he was going to panic. Neither medic rushed him. Finally he felt like he was able to continue and he nodded, but he didn't loosen his grip on Ratchet's hand.

 _[You're doing fine]_  Ratchet smiled at him again–so many smiles from a mech more known for his frowns, and every one of them precious to Drift–and slowly removed his hand from Drift's cheek. The swordsmech expected him to release his own diagnostic cable, but he didn't.

Instead, Ratchet picked something up and held it out where Drift could see it.

A key to his cuffs. Ratchet held it still instead of reaching for Drift's arm. "Can I take the cuffs off of you? It'll be much easier for us to treat you without them," he said.

Drift jerked back in instinctive denial, terror roaring through him once more, and Ratchet squeezed his hand and signed  _[safe]_  again. "Shh, it's all right, I promise. No one's going to take you from me. Your coding won't be trying to make you go anywhere now that you've imprinted on me. I won't let anyone separate us. You don't need the cuffs anymore."

Drift squeezed his optics shut. Primus, this was hard, but he reminded himself that he trusted Ratchet. Ratchet would never hurt him. Ratchet would never let anyone else hurt him, either. He nodded again without opening his optics and was once more grateful that his vocalizer had glitched because it meant he couldn't whimper when he heard the click and felt the cuff fall away from his wrist.

But keeping his optics offline meant that he was completely taken by surprise when Ratchet scooped him back into his lap. Drift gasped at the intensity of the sudden full-body contact and shuddered from head to toe. The sensation of his thighs dragging over Ratchet's legs was somewhere between ecstasy and agony. It was nearly enough to make him overload and Drift fought it off with all his strength.

 _Humiliated enough right now, don't need_ that  _on top of it, thank you!_

Ratchet hesitated for a split-second, barely enough to even notice, but Drift noticed. Of  _course_  he noticed, and he wanted to die from embarrassment. But Ratchet didn't comment on it. He just arranged Drift more comfortably under the spray, carefully keeping the movement to a minimum and avoiding anything that would cause Drift's plating to slide over his, and his field sent comfort and understanding. "Shh, don't worry, it's all right," he whispered in his audial, quietly enough that the hiss of the spray would keep Ambulon from hearing him.

Drift pressed his face against Ratchet's chest, wishing he could just crawl away and hide. He'd spent the years since New Crystal City learning how to control every aspect of his field and frame, and this complete loss of control was almost more than he could stand.

Ratchet took his hand and laced their fingers together.  _[I can help]_  he signed.

Drift shivered harder as his hyperactive libido painted a very vivid picture of exactly what kind of help he needed. Damn it, Ratchet  _couldn't do that_  right now, but Drift couldn't stop torturing himself with those memories. Primus, he'd never been so revved up in his life, and even his shame didn't give him the strength to refuse Ratchet's offer, whatever he was offering. The degree of charge he was carrying was physically painful.  _[Not in front of Ambulon]_  he signed back, because while he desperate for some relief, he'd had more than his fill of doing things before an audience.

 _[Trust me]_  Ratchet replied, and with one final squeeze of his hand, he let go. "I'll link in first, Ambulon. Wait just a moment before you connect to me," Ratchet said, and Drift wondered if that was more for his benefit than the other medic's, but he popped his diagnostic panel and kept his optics offline.

The sensation of Ratchet's diagnostic cable slotting into his medical port was not one that Drift would usually consider erotic, but right now,  _everything_  Ratchet did struck him as erotic. He pushed his face more firmly against Ratchet's chest armor, fighting the charge crackling through his systems–

–and felt it bleed away.

Drift's head snapped up and he stared at Ratchet in complete shock. He'd never heard of a mech being able to draw another's charge off like that! The CMO gave him a little smile and an affectionate pulse from his field. "All right, Ambulon, go ahead," Ratchet said, putting his arm with its open diagnostic hatch across Drift's shins so the other medic could reach without getting into the cold spray.

Drift watched Ambulon as he dried off Ratchet's arm, frowning the whole time. "Do I need to have a talk with you, Ratchet?" he asked, not looking at Drift.

"I know what I'm doing, thank you," Ratchet replied calmly. "Concentrate on your patient, please."

"The way I see it, I've got two of 'em," Ambulon muttered. "Please remember that I'm about to be in this loop before you try any more tricks, will you?" And, still frowning, he plugged in.

Drift felt Ratchet's presence in his systems first, warm and reassuring. There were no words in the connection but he didn't need them, not really–impressions and field were enough, especially combined with the relief that came from no longer being so charged-up that his protoform tingled with it. He welcomed the CMO's presence and let his head drop onto the medic's shoulder again, his body relaxing for the first time since all this had started.

Ratchet laced their fingers together once more and signed,  _[Is this all right]_

 _[Yes]_  Drift replied. Anything that brought Ratchet closer was extremely all right with him.  _[Thank you for doing that]_  He knew it was only a temporary reprieve, but he would take whatever he could get.

He felt Ratchet's smile in his field.  _[You're welcome / if this stops being all right tell me]_

Then Drift felt Ambulon join the link. The junior medic's presence felt much different from Ratchet's, but it was difficult to clearly explain how. His sense of Ratchet was a mixture of  _warmth-tired-determined_ , while Ambulon was  _concern-calm-professional._  Both were comforting, but the best part of it was the sense of Ratchet standing firmly between Drift and Ambulon, willing to step in and protect him if necessary.

Drift had spent his entire life taking care of himself and knowing to the core of his spark that no one else would do it if he couldn't. The sensation of being protected was new to him, and he wasn't surprised to discover that he liked it immensely.

Ambulon started a full-system diagnostic scan, and Drift imagined Ratchet monitoring the results as they flowed back to the other medic. He wished he could do the same.  _[How bad is it]_  he signed as the full-frame tickle subsided. He didn't really care so much about the answer, but he really liked the way Ratchet's fingers caressed his when he signed his replies. If he was about to get his voice back, he wanted to feel it at least one more time.

 _[You did a number on yourself]_  Ratchet replied, his field going stern with disapproval.  _[But you'll be all right]_

"Drift, your vocalizer is offline because of a tripped fuse, and I can reset that without any difficulty," Ambulon told him a few moments later. "But your thermoregulation protocols are my primary concern, and that malfunction is due to three fuses that were damaged to the point that they need to be removed and replaced. All the other repairs can safely wait until after your heat cycle is over, but this one can't. You're in danger of overheating until we get this system back online. I've got the necessary parts with me and I can do this procedure in less than ten minutes. Can you handle me touching you?"

Both of them clearly expected Drift to say no. And honestly, before this link, Drift knew that his answer  _would've_  been no _._  But now, having felt Ambulon's psyche like this, he could say  _[Yes]_  without fear overwhelming him again.

Ratchet rested his chin atop Drift's helm as a wave of pride filled his field.  _[You're doing so well / you're so strong]_  he signed as he tightened his other arm around the swordsmech's back, and Drift was glad his face was hidden so no one could see the look on his face. A few words of praise from Ratchet and he was on the verge of tears again, and he knew he couldn't blame that on his heat. "Give him back his voice first, please," Ratchet told Ambulon. "That way he can tell us if there's a problem when we're doing the other procedure."

Drift noticed the plurals and smiled at the subtle reassurance that Ratchet was going to make sure he was involved in everything Ambulon did.

Resetting the fuse for his vocalizer was the work of an instant. Drift jumped as a burst of feedback crackled from his vocalizer as power returned to the delicate circuitry, followed by a high-pitched whine that abruptly cut out. "All right, that should do it. Try to say something," Ambulon told him.

"Ra _-kssht-_ " Drift winced at the static, reset his vocalizer, and tried again. "Ratchet shouldn't be in the cold," he said, enunciating every word as clearly as he could.

Ambulon laughed as Ratchet made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a groan. "What did we say about you trying to take care of me?" Ratchet growled, embarrassment coloring his field again.

Ambulon's grin was the first thing Drift saw when he finally opened his optics. "Ha! First Aid was right–he's better at taking care of you than  _you_  are, Ratchet," the junior medic pointed out. His grin grew when Ratchet shot him a glare. "Yeah, don't give me that look, he's not wrong about the cold. You shouldn't be in here at all, and you especially shouldn't be under that spray. Drift, if you're ready, I can replace those other fuses now so we can stop your overheating and get you out of here. That's the only way Ratchet's going to get himself warmed up," he added, as though Drift needed any further encouragement.

Drift glanced up at Ratchet, trying hard not to smile at the news that First Aid had been so impressed with the care he'd given Ratchet that he'd told Ambulon–he was proud of that, damn proud, but he didn't want to make Ratchet's embarrassment worse. "I'm ready," he said, his voice hoarse but perfectly clear. "Let's get it over with."


	8. Don't Cry [Don't Think About It]

Ratchet wasn't sure what he'd expected to happen when Ambulon started the procedure to replace the destroyed fuses and get Drift's thermoregulation systems back online, but…

… actually, that wasn't even remotely true, and Ratchet didn't finish the thought. Drift had been terrified and on the edge of panic since the moment Ambulon had set pede inside the washracks. He'd very nearly shut down entirely at the prospect of Ambulon even plugging in his medical diagnostic cable, which was one of the least threatening things one mech could do to another. Those systems were not designed to allow any form of deliberate harm, and hacking them to do so was difficult enough to be almost unheard of.

So yes, Ratchet  _had_  been sure what he'd expected the swordsmech would do at the prospect of the ex-Decepticon actually touching him, and that was why he was so damn shocked when Drift agreed to the procedure with barely an instant's hesitation.

Shocked, and impressed as  _frag._  Drift was facing a nightmare situation with far more courage than anyone could possibly ask of him. His only concessions to fear were to hold onto Ratchet and ask him not to leave him alone with Ambulon.

Ratchet was more than happy to do the former–hugging the gorgeous speedster wasn't exactly a hardship.

And he'd never had any intention of doing the latter. Ratchet wouldn't soon forget how upset Drift had been during the short time he'd been away so he could let the other medic in. Leaving him alone again was not an option. Whatever happened, Ratchet was stuck to the speedster's side until this was over. After everything Drift had done for him during his own heat, Ratchet wasn't about to refuse him anything, and he would do whatever it took to get him through this with as little pain and distress as possible.

Right now,  _doing whatever would help_  meant getting this procedure over with as quickly as possible so they could get Drift out of the washracks without endangering him, and Ratchet carefully shifted their position beneath the spray. This was going to be tricky–Ambulon needed the area between Drift's shoulders to stay dry while he replaced the melted fuses and wiring, but the icy cleanser pouring down over Drift's frame was all that was keeping him from overheating into a catastrophic meltdown. Finding a position that kept Drift's body mostly under the cooling spray while still blocking enough of the cleanser to give Ambulon room to work was a tricky proposition, and getting situated properly took several minutes.

And to make things worse, all of the movement was getting Drift revved up again. Ratchet could feel the arousal in his field and he was becoming acutely aware that not all of the wetness on his lap came from the cleanser spray. He didn't look down to confirm it, but he was pretty sure that Drift's interface panel was open now. The speedster didn't seem to have noticed it yet and Ratchet sure as slag wasn't going to be the one who pointed it out to him. He strategically draped his arm over Drift's hips, ensuring that Ambulon wouldn't accidentally get a glimpse of anything he shouldn't–the junior medic would take it in stride, but Ratchet strongly suspected Drift would not be so sanguine about the exposure. Ratchet concentrated on keeping his own field calm and strong and protective in the hope that it would soothe Drift's overactive interface protocols.

And he devoted the rest of his processor to firmly stomping on even the slightest  _hint_  of a thought about how much he wished Ambulon's treatment for his stupor could bring his own interface protocols back online. There was no point in thinking about that, and he didn't dare let any of those thoughts spill over into his EM projections. This situation was difficult enough without dwelling on how much he'd like to help Drift through his heat the old-fashioned way.

Unfortunately, when Drift wrapped his arm around Ratchet's waist and buried his hot face against his throat, Ratchet had a very hard time thinking about anything else. Having a lap full of revved-up, gorgeous speedster was something that was not easy to ignore, especially when his own reawakening medic protocols were helpfully informing him of exactly how charged up Drift was, complete with real-time alerts on his HUD providing quantifiable evidence of just how much Drift wanted him.

Just because Ratchet couldn't get physically aroused right now didn't mean that he could shut his processor or emotions off, and it was killing him that he couldn't help Drift the same way that Drift had helped him.

It didn't erase the memory of that desperate longing in Drift's optics when he'd shaken Ratchet from his heat coding and offered him a choice instead of taking him as a prize.

It didn't mean that he couldn't remember how well Drift had satisfied him during the days that followed, or the care the swordsmech had taken to pleasure him, or those whispered words he wasn't supposed to have heard.

And it certainly didn't mean that Ratchet couldn't recognize just how nice Drift's heated exvents felt on the sensitive plating of his throat, or how perfectly the swordsmech fit in his lap. There were other types of physical pleasure than the kind that ended in 'facing, and the simple truth was that Drift felt  _good_  in his arms.

Nothing about Ratchet's stupor kept him from wishing Drift's heat could have waited  _two fragging weeks_  and that he could've found himself in this position in far different circumstances.

Fragging useless train of thought.  _Processor on the job, Ratchet,_  he thought sternly as Ambulon quickly and carefully removed the armor plate between Drift's shoulderblades. "I'm getting started," Ambulon said calmly. "Try not to move, either one of you."

The tense minutes crawled by. Ratchet felt Drift trembling despite his brave front when the junior medic pulled out the first scorched and twisted fuse. The wetness on Ratchet's lap was not cold at all anymore and the swordsmech's field was positively molten with desire and need for Ratchet, and revulsion at Ambulon's touch.

The last straw was when Drift finally noticed his panel and shame overwhelmed everything else in his field.

It was that last emotion that pushed Ratchet to do something. He couldn't stand Drift feeling this way. _::Hurry up with this,::_  he commed Ambulon.  _::Or disconnect for a minute. I need to–::_

 _::If you try to redirect his charge again, I will sedate you both and separate you, and_ damn _the heat coding,::_  Ambulon interrupted firmly.  _::You are_ this _fragging close to burning out your ground wiring, Ratchet. I'm sorry he's uncomfortable but I am not watching you kill yourself right in front of me, do you hear me? You already did that to me once on Delphi and once was more than enough! And if you don't care about your life or my mental health,::_  he added as though already anticipating Ratchet's  _I know what I'm doing_  argument,  _::how about you think for a second about what'll happen to Drift if you fry your circuits right in front of_ him _? Have you forgotten about the imprinting?::_

Ratchet bit back his protest. There was no way around it–Ambulon was right, slaggitall. If Ratchet was incapacitated or killed while Drift was still imprinted on him, the backlash of that loss through his field could permanently damage his EM system or even kill him. Ratchet wanted to ease Drift's discomfort, but not if it could endanger him.

And that didn't even take into account those words Drift had whispered when he'd thought Ratchet couldn't hear him. If Ratchet hurt himself or died because he'd done something stupid in an attempt to ease Drift's embarrassment and discomfort, the swordsmech might not ever recover from that guilt. He growled, beyond frustrated, but reluctantly dropped the idea.

Ambulon shot him a pointed glare and Ratchet took the hint.  _::Fine, you want me to say it? You're right and I won't do it again. Happy now?::_  he said acidly.

 _::No,::_ Ambulon replied.  _::I'm not. You think forbidding you to do the one thing that's given him any relief since I walked in here gives me the slightest bit of pleasure? I'm not your enemy, Ratchet. If I knew how to do that thing you did, I'd help him myself, but since I don't, I'm just trying to get this done as fast as possible so I can get out of here and stop stressing him. I'm doing the best I can, dammit.::_

Ratchet immediately felt guilty for thinking of Ambulon as an adversary. He was here to help Drift, not to give them more difficulties. He closed his optics for a moment and sighed.  _::I know, Ambulon. I'm sorry. You're doing a fine job,::_  he said much more calmly than before, and he meant it.

The junior medic pulled out another two slagged relays.  _::Just keep him still for another two minutes, that's all I need,::_  Ambulon said in the distracted tone Ratchet recognized as  _I'm busy, this is hard, stop talking to me_.

Ratchet focused on Drift instead. The swordsmech was holding his hand very tightly and his field churned where it meshed with Ratchet's, arousal and dismay warring for supremacy. As much as Drift was trying to act like Ambulon's touch wasn't bothering him, his field couldn't lie. He was about to jump out of his plating with discomfort.  _[Almost done]_  Ratchet signed, hoping it would help.  _[You're doing so well / just a little longer]_

 _[Are you getting too cold]_  Drift signed back, concern briefly overtaking the rioting emotions in his field.  _[And don't tell me not to worry about you]_  he added before Ratchet could tell him that exact thing.  _[I can worry about you if I want to]_

That actually made the CMO chuckle. He rested his cheek atop Drift's helm and imagined wrapping his field around Drift's like a comforting shield.  _[I'm a little cold but it's not bad]_  he replied, deciding the truth was more likely to soothe Drift than attempting a lie that the speedster would immediately detect in his field. Besides, it seemed like focusing on Ratchet was helping distract Drift from his own condition.  _[I can control my temperature better now / Ambulon brought me a data patch that got a lot of my internal processes back online]_

Drift's field broadcast such displeasure that Ratchet didn't need to see his face to picture the scowl. He signed so fast in his anger that Ratchet could barely understand it all.  _[I know what he gave you / that's dangerous and he fragging well knows it / if I could move I would beat his aft for doing that to you / he should never have done that]_

There was more, but Ratchet squeezed his hand until he stopped. Drift was  _still_ trying to take care of him! It was all Ratchet could do to hold back his groan of dismay.  _[Not his fault / I ordered him to do it]_  Ratchet admitted, immediately regretting his earlier decision to be truthful about his condition. He had only wanted to distract Drift, not make him angry at Ambulon.  _[And I'll be fine / now stop worrying about me]_

Drift tipped his head back and glared up at him. "Dammit, Ratchet, what did I just tell you," he said hoarsely, everything in his tone and face and field scolding Ratchet for yet again telling him to stop worrying.

"Finished," Ambulon said before Ratchet could reply, for which the CMO was grateful. "Let me put your armor plate back on, and then I want you to reboot your thermoregulation protocols. If you can't get them online, Ratchet and I will do it, but I want you to try first. All right?" Drift nodded and Ambulon quickly affixed the swordsmech's carefully-dried armor back in place. He shifted back as far as the diagnostic cable would allow when he was finished and Drift's field eased considerably as soon as Ambulon was no longer touching him. "All right, give it a shot."

Ratchet didn't need the medical connection to know that it worked. Drift's vents were already open, but suddenly scalding air blasted from the swordsmech as his cooling systems abruptly engaged at full strength. Steam exploded from his armor, the cleanser flash-boiling from the release of heat. Within less than a minute, the washracks were filled with mist and Drift's frame was only hot against Ratchet's instead of blazing.

Relief swamped the medic. "Well done, Ambulon," he said gratefully as he felt Drift sag against him. "Better, Drift?"

The swordsmech nodded, his temperature still dropping. Ratchet reached up and turned off the cleanser so Drift wouldn't get chilled. Ambulon smiled at both of them and disconnected his diagnostic cable from Ratchet, then handed him a pair of drying cloths. "Get dried off. I'll get your berth set up for you and be back in a minute," he said with a quick glance at Ratchet that he didn't have to use the com link to understand.

The junior medic was giving Ratchet time to help Drift with his charge in the usual way.

Still, even though Ratchet was certainly willing, he couldn't imagine Drift would want him to do that with Ambulon right in the other room. Instead, he waited until the other medic was gone to gently tuck one of the towels around Drift's shoulders. "We'll wrap you up and get you in the berth," he said softly. "You'll be more comfortable there. Can you move this so I can dry you off?" he added, laying his hand over Drift's where he still clutched his Great Sword close.

Drift tucked his helm beneath Ratchet's chin again and didn't move his sword. Even though they were alone and he had the use of his vocalizer back, he signed to Ratchet instead of speaking as the embarrassment in his field surged.  _[I'm sorry / I can't make my panel close]_

Ratchet well remembered the way the heat coding had taken over and retracted his panel the instant Drift had brought him back to his hab suite. It wasn't his fault, was nothing he should be embarrassed about, but logic had little to do with emotional reactions at the best of times. And this? Was not the best of times.

Still, Ratchet's diagnostic cable was still plugged into Drift's medical port, and even though his medic protocols were slow to reboot, this wasn't a difficult command string. "I think I can help with that, if you want me to try," he murmured. Drift nodded without lifting his head and Ratchet concentrated on triggering the manual override on his interface panel.

It fought him, but in the end Ratchet was victorious. The wave of relief that swamped Drift's EM projections was all the reward he needed. "Better?" he murmured again as he disconnected his cable, and the swordsmech nodded. Ratchet smiled and dropped a soft kiss atop the nearest audial flare without thinking.

He immediately regretted it when a burst of pleasure and desire rocked Drift's field and the speedster moaned and shuddered. Oh  _frag,_  how could he have forgotten how sensitive Drift's audials were? Why hadn't he considered the effect that kind of thing would have on him right now? "Oh slag, I'm sorry," he whispered, concentrating on sending cool, tranquil energy through their meshed fields to counteract Drift's rising arousal. "Damn it, I wasn't thinking."

"Primus, don't apologize for that," Drift whispered, still shivering on Ratchet's lap. He finally lifted his head and gently put his Great Sword down before meeting the medic's optics. "But I think it might be best if I dry myself off unless you want to have to do that override thing again," he said, holding out a hand for one of the towels.

Ratchet handed it over and didn't object when Drift scooted off his lap with clear difficulty–just because Ambulon had repaired his thermoregulation systems didn't mean the rest of the damage he'd taken from that electrical cascade had vanished. The swordsmech's usually-steady hands shook badly as he swiped the towel over his frame. Ratchet dried himself quickly, making sure to remove the evidence of Drift's arousal from his lap first before the swordsmech caught sight of it. Even though he respected Drift's wish to do this himself and didn't offer to help, he kept a careful eye on Drift just in case he changed his mind.

Ambulon buzzed Ratchet over his private channel a few minutes later, wordlessly asking if it was safe to return. Ratchet didn't bother with the coms for his answer. "Come in, Ambulon, we're ready for you," he said so Drift would know the other medic was returning. Drift didn't look up but his shoulders stiffened. Ratchet wanted to touch him and reassure him, but he didn't want to make another mistake.

Ambulon didn't seem surprised to see them both still sitting on the drain grating. "All right, let's get you to the berth. Can you walk, Drift?"

This time the swordsmech's whole body went rigid. The pit with caution–Ratchet put both hands on his shoulders and squeezed. It seemed like the right thing to do because Drift's spinal strut lost a little of its tension, but rather than speaking, the speedster just shook his head.

Ratchet got to his feet, already dreading where this was going. If just having Ambulon touch him to replace those fuses had been almost unbearable for Drift, this was out of the question. "I can–" he started, but Ambulon cut him off.

"No you can't. Don't be a fool, you can barely stand up by yourself," he said brusquely. He turned his golden optics on the swordsmech and gentled his tone, continuing before Ratchet could object. "Drift, Ratchet's too weak to carry you and I know you don't want him to strain himself either, so I'm going to move you. How do you want to do this–do you want some time to prepare yourself, or would you prefer that we do it fast and get it over with?"

Drift gripped the towel hard enough to tear the fabric and Ratchet cursed his stupor yet again. Damn it, if the Decepticons had put their mecha right back in the field after their heat cycles, they  _had_  to have received some different kind of treatment than what Ambulon had given him. Ratchet was awake and mostly functional, but his frame was still very weak.

But now wasn't the time to ask the junior medic for explanations. Drift was answering. "Get it over with," he rasped. "Don't let me think about it."

"Right." Ambulon strode across the washracks and reached down, but he didn't immediately grab Drift. Instead he picked up the Great Sword and pushed it into Ratchet's hands. "Take that," Ambulon ordered. Only when Ratchet had accepted the sword did Ambulon kneel down beside Drift and meet the swordsmech's gaze once more. "Look at Ratchet, Drift," he said, and Drift did so, looking up at Ratchet with anguished, exhausted optics. Ratchet tried to look confident and calm as he held that pained gaze, but his fingers ached from gripping the Great Sword so tightly.

Ambulon glanced up at him but Ratchet couldn't look away from Drift. He nodded and went on. "He is going to be right beside us every step of the way, and he's armed and I'm not. Okay? Just keep looking at him."

And without waiting for a reply, Ambulon scooped Drift up off the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me every damn step of the way. I don't even know at this point if it sucks but I'm sick of looking at it, so HERE, TAKE IT, JUST FUCKING TAKE IT *collapses*


	9. Coming Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Also possible trigger warning for Drift struggling not to think about his past rape--no explicit memories, but he is having a panic attack with lots of stress and fear. If this will be a problem for you, please scroll past the first third or so of this.

Drift wanted to close his optics when Ambulon reached for him, to pretend it was Ratchet picking him up with a medic's effortless, deceptive strength, but instincts honed by millions of years of battle wouldn't let him close his optics to a threat.

And as soon as Ambulon's hands touched him, he knew it wouldn't have worked anyway. His frame recognized the touch as  _not-Ratchet_  and reacted with a violent surge of loathing that churned his tanks and sent his heat-coding into a frenzy. It was a thousand times worse than the disgust he'd felt when Ambulon had replaced his bad wiring because at least then he'd had Ratchet right there to concentrate on instead, and the imprinting had focused his attention on the feel of his chosen mate wrapped around him instead of Ambulon's unwelcome touch.

But now Ratchet wasn't touching him at all and Ambulon was all over him, his touch seemingly  _everywhere_. Bad memories surged as the junior medic slid one arm beneath his knees and the other across his back, dragging the swordsmech right up against his frame, and weak or not, it was all Drift could do not to lash out and fight his way free.

" _Ratchet!"_  Ambulon hissed urgently as the swordsmech's field surged chaotically, but he didn't hesitate to scoop Drift off the floor. The little bit of Drift's processor that wasn't bound up in the heat coding appreciated his determination to get this over with as quickly as possible.

The rest of him wanted to kill Ambulon for putting his hands on him.

Ratchet felt it too and was already moving. He grabbed Drift's clenched hand and pried it open, then shoved his fingers between his so he could sign  _[safe]_  over and over. "You're all right, kid," he said, and he kept signing it even when Drift clamped his other hand on top of Ratchet's and squeezed tightly enough that the movements were nearly impossible. "Keep looking at me. No one's gonna hurt you. You're all right."

Together, the two medics hurried toward the washracks door with Drift between them. Despite the cramped quarters and Ratchet having to awkwardly walk backwards, they moved together like they'd choreographed it, the benefit of millions of years of experience in team-transferring patients. Drift stared into Ratchet's determined face and tried his best to focus his processor not on how wrong Ambulon's arms felt around his back and thighs, or the press of his plating against the entire right side of Drift's frame, but on Ratchet's strong hand caught in his and the promise of protection burning in his optics.

_[Safe / safe / safe]_

It helped. It really did help. But even so, the only thing that kept Drift from vomiting again was that his tanks were completely empty.

Ratchet went through the washracks door first, Ambulon carrying Drift through right on his heels. His berth was on the far side of the suite and they made a beeline for it. Ambulon strode rapidly across Drift's quarters, not even hesitating when they neared the crash cart that blocked their path. Ratchet shoved it out of the way without ever once breaking optic contact with Drift. The two medics coordinated their steps so well that Drift was barely jostled at all, but that was no comfort. The closer Ambulon got to the berth, the worse Drift shook. He did not want Ambulon touching him, he did not want Ambulon carrying him, and most of all, he did not want Ambulon  _carrying him to the berth!_

His tanks heaved and his engine snarled a warning as he tried desperately to think of something else,  _anything_  besides being unarmed and damaged and barely able to move, or worse, the aching need in his valve and how much stronger medics were than they looked. A high-pitched, distressed keen filled the air over the misfiring growl of his engine and Drift realized the shameful whimpering was coming from him but couldn't stop it no matter how hard he clenched his denta. He squeezed his optics shut and struggled to suppress the urge to fight his way free.

…  _and maybe he couldn't move much, but how much would movement would it really take to lunge up and sink his sharpened denta into the big energon lines of his attacker's throat? The mech would probably drop him in shock and gravity would do the rest…_

" _Drift!_  Optics on me, now!" Ratchet ordered sharply. His field rolled out in a fiercely protective wave, crashing through his panic and momentarily overwhelming the spiral of his terrified thoughts, and the next message Ratchet pressed into his hand wasn't another repetition of  _[safe]_

_[I will kill anyone who tries to hurt you]_

And Ratchet's EM projections backed up that threat. He meant it.

Ratchet's willingness to do battle on his behalf was maybe the one thing that could stop Drift's descent into panic. The CMO glanced up at Ambulon for the barest second, shooting him a scowl that would've sent terror into the bravest spark. "Move your aft!" he snarled.

Ambulon didn't need to be told twice–he clearly felt the promise of violence in Drift's field, too. He sped up until the two medics were almost running.

They reached the berth only seconds later. Ratchet tossed the Great Sword right on top of the covers and climbed up onto the berth after it without the slightest hesitation. "Give him to me and back off," he ordered, and Ambulon didn't argue. He pushed Drift into Ratchet's arms and retreated halfway across the room, getting well out of EM range.

Drift clamped both arms and legs around Ratchet and held on for dear life, and he didn't care if it made him look like a fool. The abruptness of it unbalanced Ratchet and he fell backward onto the berth hard. Wing's Great Sword slid off the bed to crash to the floor and Drift winced, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of Ratchet to pick it up. He tightened his grip on the medic and pressed his face against his shoulder, clinging so tight it had to be almost painful.

But Ratchet didn't seem to mind. He just rolled them onto their sides without a word of protest, crooning softly to him. "Shh, it's all right, I've got you, it's over," Ratchet murmured, rubbing his back in long, soothing strokes while he shook and panted. He didn't try to put any space between them or urge Drift to loosen his strangling hold, either, just let Drift cling to him all he wanted. "Shh, you did so well. It's over now. It's just you and me. You're safe, I've got you. Shh, sweetspark, it's all right." Drift pressed against him like he wanted to crawl right inside and hide there, both loving the closeness and hating himself for showing such weakness, but Ratchet's field held no disgust. His projections remained full of protectiveness, and affection, and something that might've even been  _I'm proud of you_. Even better, he kept up the gentle litany of comfort, his deep voice so soothing as he murmured praise and reassurances.

When Drift realized that Ratchet had arranged them so that he was between Drift and Ambulon, using his own frame as a physical barrier just like he'd done in the washracks, he had to bite his lips together to keep from crying again.

He didn't realize Ratchet was no longer speaking to him for several seconds because the gentle, soothing cadence of his voice didn't change. "… else I need to know?" Ratchet was asking the other medic when Drift started listening to his words again instead of just his tone.

"You've got probably twelve hours before the treatment I gave you wears off," Ambulon replied, his own voice very low. "Try not to strain yourself too much? Remember that you're still recovering too, you kn–"

"I meant is there anything else I need to know that could help  _him_ ," Ratchet cut him off, and despite the warmth of his tone, the reproach in those words was impossible to ignore.

Ambulon sighed, and if Ratchet could pack scolding reproach into his soothing tone, Ambulon could put a world of frustration into a sigh. "Just keep his charge down as best you can. His ground wiring is in even worse shape than yours. Too much charge could lead to another burn-out, and you can't–"

"Yes, thank you, I am extremely aware of all the things I can't do right now," Ratchet interrupted again. Drift actually found himself smiling against the medic's chest–only the Hatchet could speak in such a sweet tone and still sound murderously threatening. "I gave you my word already."

Ambulon sighed again. "Then open the door so I can get to work and you can take care of him."

Ratchet's next words were for Drift again. "Sweetspark," Ratchet murmured, cupping his cheek in one hand and stroking his thumb over his plating, "I'm not going to leave you, but I need to get up to let Ambulon out. I'm the only one who can open your door. Will you be all right for a few seconds so I can let him leave?"

To get rid of Ambulon so he could be alone with Ratchet? Drift would do  _anything_  for that. Not to mention that he couldn't imagine denying Ratchet anything while he was calling him  _sweetspark_  in that deep, shiver-inducing voice of his. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Ratchet's field swelled with pride and affection again as Drift unwrapped himself from his death-grip around the medic. "You impress the slag out of me, kid," he whispered against Drift's helm. "I'll be fast, promise."

Drift shivered as much from the praise as from the touch of Ratchet's lips on his helm. Warmth filled his spark and he pressed his thighs together to cover the soft  _snick_  of his panel retracting again. Ratchet was moving off the berth when it happened and he didn't react, and Drift prayed he hadn't heard it. He couldn't tear his optics away from his mate  _(and oh, he loved the sound of that, even knowing it was only for this short time)_  as Ratchet quickly crossed the room to where Ambulon waited beside the door.

He could just hear their whispered conversation. "Tell Perceptor to hurry," Ratchet hissed as he laid his palm against the scanner and spoke the override command for the quarantine protocol. "He's holding up better than anyone could expect but he was already exhausted from taking care of me. I don't know how much more of this he can take."

"I told him to make this his top priority," Ambulon replied. "And First Aid is working on it, too. We'll have something for him before your meds wear off, Ratchet, I promise." He gestured to the cart, which had rolled to a stop near the foot of the berth. "There's recovery blend and coolant in there, as well as those high-energy concentrates. Try to get some into him, and you, too."

Ratchet clapped him on the shoulder and Drift had to bite back a jealous growl that he wasn't entirely sure had anything to do with the imprinting. He wanted Ratchet's hands on  _him_ , not on anyone else! But Ratchet was speaking again and he strained to pick up the words. "You're a good mech, Ambulon, and a damn fine medic. I'm glad you joined us after Delphi. Thank you."

Ambulon ducked his head as though he was no more used to praise than Drift was. Compliments hadn't been that common in the Decepticon army, and from what he'd seen of Pharma, Drift couldn't imagine he'd heard many from his former chief medical officer, either. "It's my job," he mumbled, and Drift had a strong sense of déjà vu.

That was what Ratchet always said when anyone thanked him, too.

The door slid open and Ambulon left without saying anything to Drift. Far from being offended by that, the swordsmech was glad that the medic had realized that any contact from him, even being spoken to, was physically sickening right now. He felt guilty for it–Ratchet was right, Ambulon  _was_  a good mech, and he'd treated Drift with nothing but respect–but he couldn't help it. He silently vowed to make it up to him after all this was over.

Ambulon was barely through the door before Ratchet slammed it closed again. "Chief Medical Officer Ratchet instituting quarantine level four," he said, pressing his palm to the scanner again. "Authorizing Medical Officer Ambulon and Command Officer Drift full access. Lock out protocols remain in effect for the remainder of the crew without exception, duration forty-eight hours. Confirm."

"Command confirmed, CMO Ratchet," the ship's computer replied.

Then Ratchet finally turned back toward Drift. His optics locked on the swordsmech and it was all Drift could do not to moan with the realization that Ratchet was here, they were alone, and  _he was walking this way._  Drift's arousal roared back to life and he panted as he devoured the medic's sturdy frame with his gaze, admiring the movement of his legs with every step, the confident set of his broad shoulders, the determination in his optics and the set of his jaw, the strength and resolve that were as much a part of him as the red medic crosses on his armor…

Ratchet was the sexiest thing Drift had ever seen–Ratchet had always been the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. But now, watching him walk toward his berth with that bold self-confidence, Drift felt like he was going to  _explode_  with lust.

Ratchet reached the side of the berth and moved to rejoin Drift there, but he only got one knee onto the soft surface before Drift pounced. "Dri– _mph!"_  The name died against Drift's mouth as he lunged up and grabbed him. He didn't give Ratchet a chance to catch his breath before pulling the medic down on top of him, kissing him hard the whole time as all the need and desire and love he'd spent endless years repressing pounded through his frame.

He couldn't repress it any longer.

"Please," he gasped as Ratchet managed to catch himself on his elbows so he didn't completely crush Drift, instead landing only half-atop him. Even so, the weight of the medic's heavy frame felt absolutely erotic pressing him into the berth, and he wrapped one leg around his waist and arched up to feel him better. He didn't give Ratchet time to reply before pulling him back into another kiss, hot and deep and raw with desperation. His body was on fire, his valve throbbed with an emptiness that had long ago passed the point of physical pain, and the only thought in his mind was this overwhelming yearning for  _closer,_  for  _more_.

Ratchet was all that centered him, solid and real and everything Drift had ever wanted, and when his field reacted to that kiss first with surprise, and then with a complex tangle of emotions Drift couldn't sort out, he actually whimpered in distress because even though Ratchet was kissing him back, nowhere in that mix was  _arousal_.

– _of course it's not, he_ can't _, you idiot!_

The realization hit him like a splash of icy cleanser. Drift tore himself away and curled into a ball as far away from Ratchet as he could get, panting and shaking hard. Primus, what was he  _doing?_  Exactly what had been done to him–letting the damned coding make him force himself on a mech who didn't want him. "I'm sorry," he whispered, fingers digging into his audial flares in an attempt to hold himself together as tears gathered in his optics again. The bright flash of pain from his damaged finial helped a little, pushing the lust aside for a moment, and he squeezed again, harder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Drift, oh sweetspark, don't," Ratchet said. Strong hands pulled his away from his abused audials and didn't let him hurt himself again. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Even the simple feeling of Ratchet's fingers wrapped around his sent heat spiraling through his frame. Drift's fans roared and he tried to pull away. "Shouldn't touch you," he managed, and even if the words came out shaky, they were clear. "Just makes it worse." Ratchet let go and Drift started to curl up tighter, wishing he could vanish in his misery or even transform and hide in his alt-mode until this was over.

But he didn't get the chance to try. The berth moved and Ratchet's body wrapped fully around his, arms cradling him against his broad chest, curling around Drift's huddled frame so there wasn't a single inch of space between them. "Or I could touch you and make it  _better_ ," Ratchet breathed in his audial, his mouth so close that his deep voice sent tingles down the flare and his lips brushed the hypersensitive metal with every word.

Heat shot through his entire frame and Drift couldn't hold back a moan at the glorious sensation of being completely surrounded by Ratchet. It felt  _so good_  and was still nowhere near enough… and then he belatedly realized exactly what Ratchet had  _said_  in that hot-as-frag voice of his. "Oh Primus," he whimpered, wanting so bad and knowing it wasn't possible. "But–but you can't, I know you don't want to–"

"I'll leave you alone if that's what you truly want, but there's a flaw in your logic, sweetspark." Ratchet hummed thoughtfully–it sent the most erotic vibration through his audial imaginable–and then kissed the very tip of his finial. And unlike the absent-minded kiss in the washracks, this one was slow, and lingering, and he backed it up with a wave of  _intent_  from his field that had Drift moaning again.

"Being unable to 'face with you is not the same as not  _wanting_  to," Ratchet murmured in that same deep, sensual tone as he continued pressing kiss after kiss over the sensor-packed flare. "You don't seem to think that I can enjoy touching you without fragging you. I promise you, that isn't true." A gentle flick from something hot and moist and  _oh holy Primus it was his glossa_  and Ratchet kept speaking in that dark, purring tone, painting the picture in his mind, "My spike may be offline but my hands and my mouth are fully functional, and I am very willing to use them in any way you like." Another kiss right where his audial met his helm, mouth open, hot and wet. "And if you want me to, I will."

Drift couldn't stop himself from imagining it.  _Ratchet's hands sliding over his plating… Ratchet's mouth kissing lower, between his thighs…_

Those mental images combined with the intense pleasure of those kisses on his audial and the sensual promise in his voice, and Drift cried out as a minor overload ripped through him. Far from giving him any relief, he felt even more wound up when the tremors passed. "Please," he whispered again, still feeling like it was wrong but unable to summon the will to refuse. He could feel guilty later, damn it, but he would die to have anything of Ratchet now, would do anything to end this torture. "Please, Ratchet,  _oh please it hurts!"_

Ratchet hugged him tight and kissed his temple. "Shh, Drift, shh, I'll take care of you. I'm going to make it all better," he murmured, somehow sexy and soothing at the same time. His field wrapped Drift in warmth and care and admiration, as though he were something precious instead of weak and disgusting. Drift turned in his arms, mouth blindly seeking, and Ratchet caught his lips in a kiss. Drift clutched at his shoulders and moaned as Ratchet kissed him deeply, passionately, the way he'd dreamed of so many times. One of those legendarily skilled hands slipped down his frame and Drift gasped, arching up into the touch, thighs parting in silent invitation, his field begging for relief.

Ratchet didn't tease. Drift sobbed into his kiss with relief and pleasure as two fingers slid inside his valve, finally,  _finally_  easing that painful emptiness. He threw his head back and cried out with every movement of those fingers pumping in and out, and when Ratchet brought his thumb to play on his anterior node, he could no longer control the urge to thrust his hips in time. A third finger joined the first two in an exquisite stretch and Ratchet pushed them as deep as he could reach, rubbing the metalmesh lining, pressing every node he could find. Drift's fans roared and he couldn't stop moaning Ratchet's name over and over, gasping so hard for air that he couldn't even kiss him any longer.

Ratchet nuzzled his audial again. "I wish I could tell you how amazing you feel on my fingers," he murmured, thrusting deep again and spreading them wide. Drift wailed as the stretch activated nodes even beyond his fingers' reach. "It's almost as good as feeling you on my spike… mmm, so hot, so soft, so wet …" Drift shuddered, his valve unconsciously clenching as a new wave of arousal burned him, and Ratchet purred in his audial. "Oh, so  _tight_ , too. Does this feel as good to you as it does to me?"

Just the thought that this mech he'd loved almost all his life was genuinely enjoying touching him like this was enough to knock every last thought from his processor. "Ratchet," Drift cried, his overload building with almost frightening speed.

"You're so beautiful," the medic went on, his fingers never once pausing their movements between Drift's thighs. "The way you move, the sounds you make, how you tremble when I do  _this…"_  His thumb pressed down in small, intense circles on Drift's node and he froze, his entire body going still, mouth gaping and shaking from helm to pedes as everything in him focused on that single point that sent ecstasy throbbing through his frame. "Just like that," Ratchet breathed, "oh yes, just like that. Let go for me, sweetspark. Let it come. You overload for both of us."

As though on command, Drift's overload burst through him, locking his frame in a blaze of euphoria. Distantly he heard a voice screaming Ratchet's name over and over but he couldn't find the energy to care why because the medic's fingers were still moving inside him, dancing over the internal nodes and drawing his overload out to incredible lengths.

It was some time before Drift realized that Ratchet's warm voice had never stopped. "Good, Drift, yes, just like that, you're doing so well, you're perfect," Ratchet murmured, and his field pulsed with a pleasure and satisfaction that wasn't sexual and demanded nothing in return. Somehow that confirmation that Ratchet really was enjoying this even though he couldn't actually interface was the trigger to push Drift into a second overload, and Ratchet kept up the steady stream of praise and encouragement the entire time.

When he finally fell limply back, exhausted, Ratchet carefully withdrew his fingers but didn't move away. The relief was nearly as blissful as those powerful overloads had been–his frame was as close to  _relaxed_  as it had been since this entire nightmare had started.

Drift panted as heat poured out of his vents. Instead of releasing him so he could cool down, Ratchet rolled onto his back and pulled Drift atop him so his frame could get all the cool air it needed while he still held Drift close. He tucked his helm beneath the medic's chin and cuddled as close as he could get. "Better?" Ratchet asked softly, rubbing soothing circles on his back plating.

 _The only thing better than this would be if I could keep you,_  Drift thought, but he'd regained enough control over his vocalizer not to say it. "Much better. Thank you," he whispered, the words emerging in a burst of static–apparently that had been  _him_  screaming, and his newly-reactivated vocalizer hadn't much appreciated the abuse. Still, even sated as he was, he could feel arousal lurking in the back of his mind as the heat-coding noted his still-empty gestation chamber. It wasn't going to stop cranking him up until that tank was full. "But I don't think it's going to last long," he admitted, hoping he didn't sound ungrateful but wanting to warn him.

Ratchet actually chuckled softly. "Pleasing you again will be no hardship, believe me," he promised, kissing the top of his helm. "You come undone so beautifully. I could watch you overload all day." Drift shivered and the medic held him close, arms and field wrapped securely around the speedster. "Now rest if you can. I'm not going anywhere."

And even helpless, damaged, and in the grip of the heat cycle he'd learned to fear and despise, Drift fell asleep feeling safer and happier than he had in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AnnieQuill, I couldn't get this done by your birthday, but a day late isn't that bad, right? Hope your birthday was great!


	10. Total Eclipse of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song title thing is really getting to me and yes this one's cheesy as hell but it FITS dammit. Read the chapter, then go look at the lyrics if you don't believe me. 
> 
> Also this chapter is stupidly long and that's vienn_peridot's fault. I BLAME YOU. *glares*

Ratchet held Drift close, savoring the peace and contentment that saturated the sleeping mech's field. He had no illusions that Drift wouldn't sleep long–the coding wouldn't allow him much of a reprieve, especially since it wasn't getting what it wanted at all right now. The overloads would give Drift a little break from the discomfort of his charge, but his coding didn't care how much he overloaded. It wanted a full gestation chamber, period.

In fact, the coding was still escalating. Even though Ratchet couldn't physically respond to Drift's chemical markers, his medical protocols had rebooted enough that he could sense them in the air. Drift was putting out an absolutely insane level of pheromones as the heat coding recognized that the swordsmech had imprinted and yet still wasn't receiving any nanites. It was the coding's attempt to provoke a reluctant mate to overcome their hesitation and get on with it.

And if his mate wouldn't do it, those hormones would eventually peak at such a high level that no unbonded mech in the universe could resist them. The chemicals would also trigger Drift's EM field to broadcast an invitation far and wide, calling out to any mecha nearby in an open invitation to come  _frag him senseless_.

And if even that didn't work? It wouldn't stop and it wouldn't give up. Heats were rare, and that was why the coding was merciless in its drive to ensure the perpetuation of their kind. It would keep pushing harder, increasing Drift's charge, sending his arousal beyond insistent and into painful, and finally to physically damaging. Heat denial could lead to such a build-up of charge that mecha overheated, blew fuses, short-circuited. Sometimes it even led to death.

Well, Ratchet was not going to allow Drift to get anywhere near that point. No slagging way.

The medic inhaled deeply. In any other situation, such an incredibly high level of mating hormones would've seen Ratchet driven nearly out of his mind with lust, but right now all he could do was distantly note that Drift smelled  _really good_. He sighed, once again hating that he couldn't react to Drift's heat properly. He'd been through the receptive phase of his heat cycle three times now, but never once had he been chosen to help another mech through theirs. Medics didn't tend to participate in heat-fights–it wasn't exactly forbidden, but it was frowned upon. Besides, the medic protocols didn't approve of violence. Healers were meant to put mecha back together, not help tear them apart. A medic's instinctive first reaction to a mech in heat was to get clear, not join in the melee.

Ratchet had always loved interfacing, enough that he'd earned a reputation back before the war that would likely shock the bolts off any of the mecha who knew him now as just  _that_   _grumpy old Hatchet_. Few of his shipmates had any idea of the hedonist that lurked beneath that exterior. Ratchet couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to spend days 'facing with a mech who was that completely focused on him, wanting him so desperately they couldn't think of anything else. He'd even asked Wheeljack to tell him about it after he'd recovered from his own first heat, wanting to know what it had been like from the other side.

The engineer's field had gone molten with pleasure from the question alone. "It was the most incredible thing I've ever experienced," he'd told Ratchet, his optics far away with the memories. "So worth the damage from the fight–in fact, I didn't even feel it until you hit your stupor. It's like those heat signals are a drug. Anything that felt  _good_  before feels  _amazing_ when the heat coding is active. You're high on pleasure. Nothing exists but the next overload. It's…" He'd paused, visibly groping for the right words and not finding them before he spread his hands, his optics crinkling in a smile. "It was fragging  _fantastic_ , Ratch.  _You_  were fragging fantastic."

And here Ratchet was, missing what might be his only chance to experience it for himself.

Not only that, but to experience it with  _Drift_  of all mechanisms. He couldn't begin to count how many times he'd followed the gorgeous speedster with his gaze, or imagined what it would be like to get his hands on Drift in a way that had nothing to do with his medical duties. He'd never once thought he'd find out. Drift could have practically anyone on the  _Lost Light_  if he wanted them, but Ratchet had never seen him leave Swerve's with another mech, or heard rumors of the beautiful swordsmech hooking up for a one-night stand. Scrap, he'd never heard of Drift even  _kissing_  anyone. Ratchet had honestly thought Drift's past had soured him on anything to do with interfacing and left him with no interest in ever being with anyone in that way again, and the medic couldn't blame him.

 _But he sure as frag got interested when my heat kicked in,_  a little voice in the back of his mind whispered.  _He came running and demolished everyone in his way, and when he won…_

Ratchet shivered. More memories were coming back all the time and  _fragging fantastic_  didn't even begin to describe it. Optimus had treated Ratchet well and Wheeljack had made sure Ratchet enjoyed his heat as much as he had, but Drift had taken pleasure to a level Ratchet hadn't even imagined existed.

How he wished he could return the favor.

Well, there was nothing to be done for it, and dwelling on missed opportunities and regrets would change nothing.  _He chose me this time. Maybe he'll choose me again next time,_  Ratchet thought wistfully, and then froze when those last two words echoed in his mind.

_Next time?_

No. There wasn't going to  _be_  a next time, not for Drift. Ratchet was going to personally make sure of that. No matter how they got him through this crisis, Ratchet was going to devote himself to finding a way to permanently disable his heat coding if that was what the swordsmech wanted. No way in pit would he let Drift suffer like this again.

And the idea of fighting to win any other receptive mech felt wrong on such a fundamental level that Ratchet instinctively shied away from the thought.

Ratchet paused for a moment, examining that reaction. Was it the imprinting talking or was that something he truly felt? Yes, he'd looked at Drift before now–the swordsmech was gorgeous and Ratchet might've left his Party Ambulance reputation in the past, but he wasn't fragging  _blind._  He'd even imagined trying to turn their strange and complicated friendship into something else a time or two.

But he never had made that move, and he really needed to remember his reasons for that, reasons that went beyond Deadlock. Part of Ratchet's hesitation had been his despair over his failing hands, part of it had been a fear of rejection, but the biggest part had been reluctance to change a relationship that had become one of his cornerstones. Complex and difficult as their friendship could be, Ratchet had begun to count Drift as one of the few mecha he could rely on to have his back in any circumstances, and he'd lived long enough to know how rare that was.

A smart mech didn't mess with that kind of relationship unless he was certain that the payoff was worth the risk. It was the kind of change a smart mech didn't even attempt unless he was  _sure_.

And Ratchet wasn't.

Drift's emotions were already intensely in play–the memory of those words whispered against his palms wasn't something Ratchet thought he would ever forget. No, it was more than merely unforgettable–that memory was fragging  _haunting_  him. It didn't seem like he could go five minutes without thinking about it. More than the words, though, he couldn't stop thinking about Drift's actions. Anyone could say  _I love you_  but the things the swordsmech had done… those weren't so lightly tossed out.

Ratchet knew he was strongly attracted to Drift and genuinely cared about him, but could he honestly say that he was  _in love_  with Drift? He had no certainty, only questions, endless questions. How much of what he was feeling right now was because of gratitude, or the aftermath of his own heat, or the imprinting messing with his head? How much was a medic's obligation to a patient in need and his natural compassion for a mech who was suffering? How much was the danger of the situation and the intense physicality of the only way he could ease Drift's pain? How much was flattery that out of all the mecha on this ship, this gorgeous speedster had chosen  _him_  as the only one he wanted to help him through his heat?

Frag it all, what did being in love even feel like?

It was impossible to sort through all of it while they were still in the middle of this.

Ratchet vented slowly, slowing his racing thoughts. He needed to be  _careful_  here. Drift was finally starting to come into his own, to show the universe that potential Ratchet had seen in him so long ago in that tiny clinic in the Dead End. He had no illusions that he held Drift's spark in his hand. If he didn't watch himself, he could crush it with terrifying ease. He would rather lose his hands again than do that.

 _Don't be stupid, Ratchet. You are_ not _starting a relationship with Drift in the middle of this mess,_  he told his tangled emotions firmly. _You've seen where that kind of thing goes. You're getting him through a crisis and that's it. If you want to try for something more, you have to wait until this is over so you can be completely sure of_ why _you want it._

And right now the only things Ratchet was completely sure of were that Drift was far more important to him than he'd ever realized and that he would do anything in his power to keep him from being hurt.

Drift whimpered in his sleep just then, breaking Ratchet from his thoughts. The medic frowned and concentrated on sending comfort and calm through his field to counteract the rising desire in Drift's, hoping to soothe him enough to delay his awakening. He wanted the speedster to get all the rest he could. Primus knew he'd had precious little of it over the last few days.

Drift settled a little as his field responded to Ratchet's soothing projections, but the medic could still feel his plating heating up again. It wasn't anything near as bad as it had been in the washracks, but his building charge had already raised his core temperature enough that the swordsmech instinctively rolled off of Ratchet to escape from his body heat. Ratchet didn't try to stop his retreat. Instead he waited until the speedster went still again before carefully reaching for the diagnostic ports on his forearm and plugging in to scan him.

The condition of his damaged wiring was unchanged and although his charge was indeed building again, it wasn't at a dangerous level. That was a relief.

But his fuel level was reading below 30%, and that was not acceptable. Ratchet remembered First Aid's description of how Drift had devoted himself to caring for Ratchet during his stupor to the exclusion of everything else, including taking even the slightest care of himself. He hadn't even been asleep for two full hours and his exhaustion had Ratchet deeply worried. The poor mech was worn down to the last of his reserves and that was not a good place to be during the intense demands that heat put on the frame.

Well, if Drift wasn't going to take care of himself, Ratchet would just have to do it  _for_  him.

He retracted his cable and slowly, so very carefully slipped off the berth, watching Drift for any sign of wakefulness or distress the entire time. It took several painstaking minutes–his heavy, bulky frame was reinforced to withstand damage when evacuating mecha from war zones and shrug off blows from thrashing patients. He was emphatically not built for stealth. Still, Ratchet finally managed to roll off the berth without waking Drift and that was a victory. He sighed with relief and tiptoed over to the cart Ambulon had left with the intention of grabbing some of that horrible recovery blend and coaxing Drift to fuel just as the swordsmech had done for him.

But when he opened the cart's doors, he had to stop and gape for a moment. And then Ratchet smiled and made a note to take his medical team out on shore leave at the next planet they encountered, find the best bar in the port, and treat them to whatever they wanted. They'd outdone themselves with this.

First Aid and Lancet hadn't sent Ambulon here with a simple emergency response crash cart with some extra fuel thrown in.

They'd sent him with a subspace cart capable of holding almost four times as much as a regular crash cart, and fully loaded it with damn near everything Ratchet might possibly need to do anything from a minor tune-up to major surgery.

He ran a hand admiringly over neatly-arranged packs of surgical tools, racks of carefully boxed spare components (already sterilized and ready for use), drawers of pre-measured medications ranging from sedatives to spark-stabilizers. It was astonishingly complete and well-organized, and either they'd had this cart readied and waiting for any catastrophic emergencies arising from the courtship fights, or they'd done a remarkable job of rapidly throwing together a perfect selection of anything Ratchet could want to take care of Drift when he'd frantically commed for help.

And when he looked at the selection of fuels he saw that they hadn't just sent recovery blend, coolant, and the high-energy concentrates Ambulon had mentioned, either. There were cubes of a rich mid-grade with the distinctive purplish sheen of a systems purifier in it. Behind them was a cube of a silvery blend Ratchet recognized as an enriched carrier-grade energon, the ideal fuel for a mech who'd been sparked. They'd taken Drift's nausea into account and included a large container of tubes of the sweet, easily-processed energon gel given to mecha after fuel tank surgeries, as well as sending a few cubes of plain low-grade–it didn't deliver as much of a punch energy-wise as the other fuels, but it was very easy to process on an upset tank. There were even several canisters of the high-quality coolant speedsters favored, a variety of solid nodules of trace metal concentrates, and a selection of oils.

It wasn't  _quite_  the whole medbay in one cart, but it was damn close, and having it at hand eased Ratchet's mind in a way he couldn't fully describe.

His gaze fell on the fuel again. Ratchet reviewed the data from the medical scan he'd just completed on Drift, then started making his selections for what would most benefit the swordsmech's stressed systems. He chose them one at a time and put them within easy reach of the berth so he wouldn't have to get up again when Drift woke up.

First came a cube of the speedster-grade coolant because frag knew the poor mech had put his heat-distribution systems through a workout. Ratchet would really prefer to do a full flush and service of Drift's radiator system, but just giving him some fresh coolant would help even without that. He added a handful of the small energon concentrates in case the coolant filled him up because Drift really did need fuel, urgently. In case Drift felt like he could hold more, though, Ratchet started to reach for a cube of the mid-grade with the decontaminant in it.

But then he paused. He remembered countless nights in Swerve's, sipping his glass of triple-filtered engex while the rest of the crew got increasingly overcharged around him, and it occurred to him that he'd never seen Drift order anything to drink other than ration-grade energon.

No, when Drift wanted to treat himself, he ordered  _sweets_. He could make a plate of those little bonbons Rung made last all night, savoring them one at a time. The closest Ratchet had seen Drift and Rodimus get to a real fight had been when the captain had casually reached out and swiped one. Drift had gone from easygoing and relaxed to snarling, armor-bristling threat display in a nanosecond. He snapped at Rodimus' hand before the other speedster could toss the little glowing ball into his mouth, biting the treat right out of his grasp and actually taking a chunk out of the captain's finger along with it.

Rodimus had laughed it off while Ratchet walked them both to the medbay to reattach the tip of his finger, teasing the frantically-apologizing Drift about just wanting a bite of the sweetest thing on the ship and asking if he tasted better than the candy, but the medic noticed that Drift's treats had been left untouched even by Whirl when they returned to Swerve's afterward.

Smiling a little, Ratchet put back the mid-grade. The cart held no candy but he picked up several tubes of the energon gel instead, since it was significantly sweeter than any other fuel in the cart. Consulting his readouts again, he selected a few specific trace metal pellets, and finally he topped it all off with a can of soothing high-viscosity oil to settle Drift's tank.

Then he looked at the berthside cabinet where he'd lined all of this up and had to laugh at himself. Three mecha couldn't hold that much in one sitting. Realistically he doubted he could get Drift to consume even a fraction of all of this, and he reluctantly picked up a cube of recovery blend because it would take the place of the energon, the coolant, and at least one of the trace metal supplements. If he couldn't get him to consume anything else, Drift would still benefit greatly from this.

But damn, that stuff was nasty. Ratchet scowled at it even as he carried it over and put it alongside the rest. He wasn't going to offer that to Drift unless he completely failed to get him to consume any of the rest of it. Maybe it was just as good as the others, but he hated the taste of it and couldn't imagine anyone would voluntarily drink it.

Besides, it wasn't sweet at all.

Suddenly his scowl softened into a smile again as he remembered those brief flashes of Drift persuading him to refuel after his heat. The swordsmech must've been very persuasive indeed to get Ratchet to drink any of that crap, much less enough of it for Ratchet to awaken with his tanks topped off. It spoke highly of his dedication to the task to get more than two full cubes of the stuff down his throat.

Well, Ratchet would just have to prove that he could be persuasive, too.

Drift whimpered in his sleep again and Ratchet's smile faded. The swordsmech's field had lost its restful calm and now throbbed with a hunger that had nothing to do with fuel. "Ratchet?" Drift said hoarsely, reaching out over the berth toward the place Ratchet had been resting. When he didn't immediately feel the medic beside him, his optics flew open and fear jolted his field. "Ratchet!"

"I'm here," Ratchet answered quickly, crawling back onto the berth and squeezing Drift's hand. "I'm right here, Drift. Told you I wasn't leaving you, didn't I?"

Drift shuddered and clung to his hand. His mouth worked silently for a moment before he finally gave up and nodded as though unable to speak. Ratchet pulled him into his arms and hugged him tight. Drift's EM projections were still chaotic and upset and the medic focused on wrapping his own field around him, imagining it as a warm, soft cloud surrounding the speedster. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," he murmured, pressing a kiss to Drift's helm. "I was just getting you some energon from the cart. Do you think you can try to fuel a little? It's important," he added when Drift hesitated and his field broadcast dismay loud and clear. Ratchet remembered how unsettled and painful his own tank had been during his heat and sympathized, but he didn't know how much longer Perceptor was going to take getting the nanites ready and Drift needed his strength in the meantime. "Your fuel and coolant levels are very low, sweetspark. Please, will you try?"

Drift shuddered again, but finally he nodded. Ratchet kissed his forehelm and smiled. "Thank you," he murmured, letting his own field show his relief at that answer. He cupped Drift's chin in one hand and lifted his head, then gestured to the berthside table. "I brought you all kinds to choose from. Take your pick."

Drift barely glanced over before his optics returned to Ratchet's and stayed there. "Don't care," he whispered, and the heat in his gaze told Ratchet that he was not thinking of fuel at all right now. That expression in his optics was adoration and longing and gratitude and admiration, all mixed up together and wrapped in pure _want_.

No one had ever looked at him the way Drift did, like he was the most desirable mech in the universe.

Ratchet stroked his thumb over the swordsmech's cheek, savoring the delicate texture of the flexible metal beneath his sensitive digit. Drift's optics closed and his lips parted slightly to release a breathless  _ohh_  of pleasure. The expression of intense concentration on his face was one of the most alluring things Ratchet had ever seen, as though he was trying to memorize the feel of Ratchet's caress. 

Yes, Drift needed to fuel, but Ratchet couldn't resist doing that again. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" he breathed before he could stop himself, but it was true and he'd thought so for long enough that he knew it wasn't the coding putting that in his mind.

Drift whimpered and bit his lip. His field heated with desire and pleasure and need, and while there was a trace of confusion there too, this time there was no shame for his reaction in the mix. Ratchet took that as a victory. "I don't know how to respond to the things you say to me," Drift whispered.

Smiling, Ratchet bent and kissed his forehelm crest again. "No response is necessary," he told him gently. "Just remember that I don't say things I don't mean."

That got Drift to online his optics again and look up at Ratchet. "Even now?"

" _Especially_  now," Ratchet said firmly, holding his gaze and opening his field so Drift could see and feel that there was no deceit there.

Drift's optics were enormous, full of emotion. "Ratchet, I–" he began, and Ratchet abruptly knew exactly what was coming.

He kissed the swordsmech before he could finish the sentence. Hearing Drift whisper those words when he was supposed to be unconscious was enough for him to handle. He didn't know if he could take hearing it to his face. It was either kiss Drift or stuff fuel in his mouth, and kissing was the fastest and nicest way he could quickly stop the words from coming.

Drift moaned and responded eagerly, and Ratchet closed his optics and let the kiss spin out as long as it would. It was a bit strange, kissing without passion, but the clarity of his thoughts let the medic fully concentrate on every single sensation in a way he'd never before experienced. Drift's lips were soft and yielding, their metalmesh incredibly smooth against his own slightly rougher ones. His glossa moved more quickly than Ratchet's, darting little flicks to the medic's slower, more languid slide. Ratchet focused and caught up to it, drawing it into his mouth for a long, sensual game of teasing caresses. Drift's hands tightened on his upper arms, his body pressing closer, but Ratchet kept his own hands still. He wanted to concentrate on this.

It felt… it actually felt incredibly good, kissing Drift like this. Fascinating in a way he hadn't anticipated he would enjoy so much. Ratchet stopped worrying about anything else and let himself become fully absorbed in it, in the play of lips and denta and glossa, in the way he could make Drift's field surge and tremble, in the soft sounds and gentle gasps he drew from his lover.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before Drift broke away, venting hard. "Primus, Ratchet," he panted, and Ratchet belatedly realized that the swordsmech was trembling all over. "If you're trying to keep my charge down, you're doing it wrong."

Ratchet inhaled sharply. "Sorry," he groaned, starting to pull back. Frag, he'd gotten completely carried away with that. Fuel, wasn't he supposed to be getting Drift some fuel?

The swordsmech groaned. "Are you kidding? Don't fragging  _apologize,_  get back here and do it  _again,_ " he said hoarsely, and he didn't give Ratchet a chance to protest. He pulled the medic's head back down and kissed him again, his lips more demanding this time, glossa bolder in its explorations, eager and persistent in chasing Ratchet's.

And that was good too, completely absorbing in a new way, but Ratchet tried to keep his head this time. It wasn't easy but he focused on the one thing that could pull him out of even the most pleasant haze–Drift's condition. "You need fuel, Drift," he reluctantly whispered, pulling away after a few moments.

Drift whimpered. "I need  _you,_ " he gasped. He grabbed one of Ratchet's hands and guided it down to rest high on his inner thigh. His plating was so hot that it stung the medic's sensitive hand, but that touch tore another moan from his vocalizer and he squeezed Ratchet's wrist tight. His field blazed with passion, and the medic realized that those simple kisses had revved Drift up more than he would've ever believed possible. "Please, Ratchet, please, please do what you did before, I'll do anything you want, I'll beg if you want me to, just please touch me,  _please_ –"

Drift's EM projections were desperate enough to be painful. The fuel could fragging well wait. "Sweetspark, you don't need to beg," Ratchet interrupted gently, but what truly stopped Drift's pleading was his finger tracing the wet, swollen rim of his valve again. The swordsmech arched and cried out as pleasure and almost overwhelming desire saturated his field. "You don't even need to ask."

Ratchet kissed him again as he trailed his fingertips between those heated folds, coating his fingers in Drift's lubricants and drawing it up over his anterior node. Drift gasped against his lips and his hips bucked. Ratchet did it again, glossa playing over the tender metalmesh lining the swordsmech's lips as his fingertips slid through Drift's wetness again and again, spreading it in long slow caresses until the swordsmech's array was absolutely dripping.

The textures were intriguing. Earlier Ratchet had been captivated by the heat and tightness of Drift's valve around his fingers, but now he took his time and made a more careful study. The rim of the speedster's valve pulsed in response to his caresses, heating, softening. He ran a fingertip along one side of the rim, felt the rubberized edge where valve met frame, and slipped the other way to feel how the rim gave way to hot, flexible metalmesh just inside his valve. He mapped that border all the way around, fingertip sliding from mesh to rubber to metal and back again, side to side, back to front.

He found a new diversion at the front of Drift's valve. The combination of his slick lubricant and the engorgement of his arousal made the smooth, hot bead of his anterior node as slippery as a pearl. His fingers were fascinated by the sensation, the way he could almost but not  _quite_  get a true grip on it. He ran his fingers along Drift's valve again, coating them in moisture, and gently pinched at the little node, feeling it slip between his fingers again and again. Every time he thought he had it captured, Drift would gasp and his valve would tighten, and that little node would twitch away from his grasp again, stubbornly uncatchable. Ratchet hummed thoughtfully against Drift's lips, adjusted his angle, tried again.

Drift was gripping his wrist almost hard enough to hurt now, his other hand clenched on the tire behind Ratchet's shoulder so tight that the rubber creaked. He threw his head back and gasped, his entire frame shaking. "Ratchet Ratchet oh Primus Ratchet please oh Primus it feels so  _good_  but Ratchet please it's not enough it's not  _enough_ ," he cried, very nearly sobbing the words.

Ratchet's first response was to try to capture Drift's lips again–between the fascinating contrasts of his valve against the medic's fingers and the increasingly demanding way Drift's glossa kept caressing his, he'd very nearly entered a trance of sensation. Was this what meditation felt like to Drift? He vented slowly and tried to get his mind back in order, but while his fingers were still quite happy with their task, Ratchet really had been enjoying those sensations on his lips and glossa and he wanted them back.

Drift bit at his own lips to hold back his cries, head thrashing back and forth so frantically that his sharp finials tore at the berth, clearly in no state for more kissing.

One solution, then. "Can I use my mouth on you?" Ratchet asked, and he was surprised to hear his own voice come out so hoarsely when his arrays were completely deactivated.

Drift's optics flew open. His jaw dropped and he stared up at Ratchet in shock, but he didn't say anything. Ratchet's fingers still hadn't stilled and there was a brief moment of distraction for both of them when he almost,  _almost_  caught that slippery little node between his fingers, but when he gave it a very gentle tug and Drift arched and keened, it slid away again. "Ratchet," he moaned, "oh please, please…"

A very large part of Ratchet wanted to take that as a  _yes,_  but Drift had been saying  _please_  for a while now and his only clear reaction to Ratchet's request had been shock. He wasn't even fully sure Drift was in a fit mental state to understand what Ratchet had said–he well remembered hearing Drift's voice during his own heat and not understanding a word he said, much too focused on his body to worry about something as insignificant as  _words_.

Drift had far too many bad memories connected to all of this for Ratchet to make any kind of move without being sure it would be welcomed, so he resisted the urge to  _show_  instead of  _tell_  and asked again.

And this time he would make damn sure Drift understood.

"Drift," Ratchet murmured, leaning closer so his lips pressed against the swordsmech's audial flare–the smooth, warm metal felt good, but still wasn't quite the sensation he was craving. "Drift, I want to kiss your valve, I want to know what you taste like when you overload, I want to catch this–" a deliberate flick over his node, "with my lips, I want my glossa inside you, but Drift, you have to tell me yes or no. You have to say it, so Drift, please tell me,  _can I use my mouth on you?_ "

The swordsmech was panting long before he was done with his question. " _Yes_  oh sweet Primus Ratchet yes  _please_  use your mouth," he gasped, and Ratchet kissed the words from his lips.

But he didn't linger there. Drift's plating was becoming worrisomely hot beneath him and while he wanted to thoroughly please the swordsmech, he didn't want his charge to build up so high that it became dangerous again. He pulled away from the kiss after only a moment and slid down the berth, stopping to drop little kisses here and there–over the big energon line of his throat, on his Autobot symbol, on the curving red stripes of his abdominal plating that the medic had always found so insanely sexy.

And then he was between Drift's thighs, eye-level with his valve and recessed spike. He allowed himself just a moment to admire the view. Yellow and white biolights pulsed along his valve rim, encircling it in a glowing ring. The swordsmech's bright red anterior node blinked in time with his throbbing spark, quick flashes of light, a visual cue to how very revved up he was. His valve dripped pinkish lubricant, so very eager, so wet  _for him_ , and Ratchet knew this memory was going to be one he revisited often alone in the washracks when his own array came back online. He had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

He glanced up to see Drift watching him, anticipation and want and desperate hunger on his face, and the medic remembered how wonderfully the swordsmech reacted to his compliments. "You are absolutely gorgeous here," he murmured, letting his fingertips return to trace the biolights with a feather-soft touch. "A work of art, sweetspark. Give me your hands."

"Ratchet, please," Drift whispered, his optics very wide, but he let Ratchet have his hands.

Ratchet pressed the speedster's legs up until he could guide Drift's right hand to grip beneath his right knee. Then he did the same with his left. "Oh yes, just like that," he said as Drift held himself open for Ratchet. He moved closer, kissed the inside of his right thigh, then his left. "You look delicious," he whispered, alternating kisses as he moved higher up his thighs. "I'm going to make a meal of you, Drift. And this–" he brushed his fingertip over Drift's anterior node again, "is going to be my dessert."

Drift clenched both fists beneath his knees and his head dropped back, but only for a moment before he was staring down at Ratchet again. He drew a breath as his field surged with desire and impatience and ravenous want, clearly about to start begging again–

–and Ratchet bent and licked a long, sweeping path straight up the middle of his valve before he could.

His breath exploded out in a desperate cry. " _Ratchet!"_

The medic hummed against his valve in reply. Drift's flavor coated his glossa and he hummed again, this time in full-sparked approval. "Oh, you  _are_ delicious," he whispered, then lowered his head for more. He resisted the urge to tease and instead sealed his mouth around Drift's rim, plunging his glossa deep and nuzzling that glowing little node.

He could tease later. Right now Drift needed an overload, and Ratchet was happy to provide it.

Drift was sobbing with pleasure now, that lithe frame arching, hips rocking against Ratchet's mouth. Ratchet thrust his glossa as far inside the swordsmech's valve as he could, feeling just the edges of his calipers trying to grip it and pull it deeper. He fluttered his glossa against the firm, raised nodes of Drift's inner valve ring, taking his cues about what the swordsmech liked from the volume of his cries.

And from the way he was gasping and begging and wailing, Drift liked  _everything_.

But Ratchet could taste the intensifying electricity on his glossa and Drift still wasn't overloading. The heat coding didn't want him getting off without a spike buried inside him and the medic's glossa wasn't fooling it. He shifted his mouth up to Drift's anterior node, suckling it between his lips as he thrust two fingers deep into that hot valve.

Drift's vocalizer spat static and his body went rigid with ecstasy, but it still wasn't an overload. Ratchet flicked his glossa over that slippery little node, alternating plucking it with his lips and sucking at it like a candy, and added a third finger to stretch his valve. He fragged him deep with his fingers, holding them as stiffly as he could, mimicking the rigidity of a spike.

" _Ratchet, Ratchet!"_  Drift screamed, shaking hard enough to vibrate the entire berth, and the medic added a fourth finger, stuffing his valve full.

And that finally sent him over. Drift overloaded hard, electricity crackling all over his frame and jumping to Ratchet's as his valve cycled down hard on his fingers. He hummed a long, low, satisfied note around the speedster's node and felt him overload again almost immediately, Drift's charge too high for just one overload to clear it.

Or two, apparently, because Drift was still wailing out his climax so loudly that it had to be audible through the walls. Ratchet suckled harder, loving the sound of Drift's pleasure as a third overload crashed over him. He kept thrusting his fingers in and out of his valve, fighting the grip of those calipers that felt like they wanted to pull his whole hand inside.

And while Ratchet was definitely willing to try, that wasn't something to spring on a mech without prior discussion. Drift's field was molten with ecstasy but Ratchet still felt an edge to it and tasted those sparks against his glossa so he kept going, his mouth and fingers making an absolutely filthy sound as he worked for one more overload.

And as he'd told Drift earlier, pleasing him was no hardship at all. The more the speedster overloaded, the sweeter his lubricants tasted, as though Drift's frame was rewarding Ratchet for pleasuring him so well. Even if he couldn't get off himself, Ratchet was thoroughly enjoying his lover's pleasure. He raised his free hand and slipped just the tip of his index finger in around his thrusting fingers, finding that ring of nodes at the opening and rubbing along them.

Drift's biolights flashed brightly enough to dazzle Ratchet's optics and he went over for the fourth time. Unlike the previous three, this one was very nearly silent as Drift's vocalizer shorted out after only an instant's scream. Now the only sounds came from Drift's roaring vents and the wet slick of Ratchet's fingers and mouth, and the medic's deep humming moan around his node.

Ratchet was just starting to back off when Drift's frame abruptly snapped rigid. His back lifted completely off the berth as a burst of charge crackled down his plating again and an unexpected fifth overload rocked him. His field projected a wave of ecstasy so extreme that even with his protocols disabled, Ratchet moaned and shuddered with reflected pleasure so intense that it was almost as though he'd overloaded too.

Then the swordsmech collapsed, venting hard, his body absolutely limp. Ratchet withdrew his fingers one at a time, slowly reducing the intensity of the sensation to keep from shocking Drift out of his blissed-out, sated state. He gently ran his glossa around the speedster's valve rim one last time, gathering the drops of the sweetest lubricant he'd ever tasted. "Oh, Drift, you are amazing," he whispered when he finally pulled away. "You are absolutely  _amazing._ "

Drift didn't make a sound but he shuddered from helm to pedes. His field felt completely wrecked in the aftermath of so much pleasure. Ratchet grabbed the top sheet and quickly wiped his face and hands, not wanting to offend Drift by smearing his fluids all over him, before moving up the bed and pulling the swordsmech back into his arms. Drift's rapid venting eased and Ratchet tucked his helm beneath his chin and just held him for a long time, stroking his back and murmuring to him until his trembling finally ceased. "You're incredible, sweetspark. Do you have any idea how amazing you are? You're so good, so strong, so brave," he whispered. "I'm honored to be here with you right now, Drift, don't ever think otherwise."

Drift pressed against Ratchet and his vents hitched, although without his vocalizer working, the medic wasn't sure if that was tears or just exhaustion.

He didn't pressure him to figure it out, just kissed his helm and made sure that their position allowed cool air to reach Drift's vents. Now that the moment was over, he couldn't help worrying about that blown vocalizer. That shouldn't have happened.

His temperature wasn't coming down fast enough for Ratchet's liking, either. He tried to keep the worry out of his field and tone as he carefully laced their fingers together again. "Can you give me your arm so I can check you? I want to be sure I didn't hurt you."

The swordsmech's field broadcast amusement.  _[You can hurt me like that any damn time you want]_  Drift signed, and Ratchet wanted to laugh at that, but Drift didn't hold out his arm so he could plug in his diagnostic cable and that concerned him, too.

But not as much as the next thing Drift signed.  _[You do it / I can't move yet]_

Ratchet kept his EM projections calm and shifted Drift's arm enough to reach his diagnostic panel. Plugging in took only a second and now that his medical protocols were almost entirely recovered, running the scan was the work of moments.

But when he got the initial readout, it took everything he had not to swear out loud.

Drift wasn't limp and still because he was so well-satisfied. The reason he wasn't moving was because his charge had risen so high that he'd blown his primary motivator circuits along with his vocalizer.

They were running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drift got his woobie a few chapters back--the Great Sword. 
> 
> Now Ratchet got his--a cart full of medical supplies. ;)
> 
> Also, don't steal candy. It's a dick move and Drift might bite your finger off for it.


	11. Comeback

Ratchet stayed still for a long moment, concentrating on venting slowly and steadily and keeping the surge of pure  _fear_  out of his field. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done but apparently he was successful at it because Drift's own EM projections didn't change. The speedster was completely exhausted, but instead of reacting to Ratchet's fear, his field glowed with happiness and gratitude, and one other feeling he didn't dare examine too closely.

Ratchet closed his optics hard and pressed his face against the top of Drift's helm to hide his expression.  _Happiness and gratitude._ Of all the things Drift could be feeling right now,  _those_  were the emotions that ruled his field? Ratchet had just done an incredibly stupid, selfish,  _dangerous_  thing to him, and he'd done it for no better reason than to keep Drift from telling him something he wasn't ready to hear. He should never have started kissing Drift at all, should've fragging well  _known_  what kissing him like that would lead to. He especially shouldn't have let himself get so hypnotized by the novelty of it, so overwhelmed by the textures and tastes and sensations that he forgot to monitor how revved up Drift was becoming. At the very least, he should have intervened much sooner to release Drift's building charge before it hit such an extreme level!

Ratchet hadn't done any of those things, and now Drift was all but paralyzed because of  _him._

And somehow Drift was  _grateful_  to him for it. He lay limp and helpless in the arms of the mech who had just come close to short-circuiting him, who could have  _killed_  him, and he was actually  _happy_  to be here.

But that wasn't all–no, far from it. The final emotion in his field, the single feeling underpinning the others, the one Ratchet hadn't wanted to look at too deeply… it didn't matter that Ratchet hadn't let him say the words out loud. Drift's field proclaimed it in a way he couldn't deny.

The guilt was eating Ratchet alive. "Drift," he whispered, holding him tighter as if that would make any kind of difference in what he'd done. "Oh, sweetspark, I'm so sorry."

Drift's only reply was a soft snore.

The medic pulled back and stared down at him in disbelief, but a quick systems query through the still-connected medical cable confirmed it. Oblivious to Ratchet's turmoil, the swordsmech had fallen into recharge again.

And he'd fallen asleep with the most beautiful, peaceful smile Ratchet had ever seen on his lips.

Ratchet's vents caught and his spark chamber felt too tight all of a sudden, and he wondered if it was a side effect of Ambulon's treatment. It didn't matter, though, and he didn't devote much of his attention to it. He pressed his chevron to the swordsmech's helm crest and sighed. "Oh, kid, what am I gonna do with you," he whispered, stroking his thumb over that smooth cheek again.

But that gesture reminded him of how all of this had started and Ratchet stopped that in a hurry. No way in pit was he making the same mistakes again. "I'm gonna take care of you, Drift. I'll keep you safe," Ratchet answered his own question, and he gently disconnected his diagnostic cable before shifting Drift out of his arms. He dragged over every pillow he could reach and did his best to recreate that wonderful nest he'd awoken in, this time around Drift. It wasn't as easy as it sounded, especially since the swordsmech had torn several of the best pillows open with his sharp audial flares when he'd been thrashing around, not to mention that Ratchet had to be careful not to block his vents. But the medic persevered until Drift was perfectly cradled in softness.

Ratchet started to move away, but then he paused and frowned. Something still wasn't right. He tapped his chin, considering, and suddenly he realized what it was.

A quick grab over the side of the berth retrieved Drift's Great Sword. Ratchet carefully laid it beside him on the pillows. His medic protocols protested putting a naked blade in the berth with an unconscious patient and he firmly ignored them. Drift had slept with his weapons many times and he wasn't going to cut himself on his own damn sword even if he  _could_ move. Ratchet picked up the swordsmech's hand and started to place it palm-down over the glowing jewel.

Something like an electric bolt buzzed through their linked hands and right up Ratchet's arm at the instant of contact and he instinctively jerked Drift's hand away before he realized that it wasn't actually a shock. It didn't sting at all or lock up his servos. Ratchet cautiously put his hand over the gem again–just _his_ hand, not Drift's, because no slagging way was he going to chance sending any more electricity through the swordsmech–and once more that strange  _something_  shot through his system.

This time Ratchet analyzed it instead of pulling away. The jewel tingled beneath his palm, not quite alive, but certainly not inert either, and he remembered Drift talking about the Great Sword's aura and life force. He'd dismissed that as he'd dismissed so much of the spiritual nonsense the swordsmech regularly spouted, but the tickle of sensation coming from the stone felt more like a concentrated EM field than anything else. And while it was strange and alien and completely unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, Ratchet didn't have any trouble reading its projections in the same way he could read a Cybertronian's EM field.

_Support. Encouragement. Confidence._

Was Drift's sword actually trying to  _comfort_  him? He blinked down at it. "Are you crazy, after what I did to him?" he whispered, barely aware of speaking aloud until the words escaped.

The feelings shifted slightly and the medic distinctly read  _amusement_  and something that felt an awful lot like  _permission/approval_ , which was something Ratchet didn't want to look at too closely. He was not trying to get a damn sword's blessing for– for– for whatever the frag it thought he was doing!

… and did he really just ascribe thoughts and motives to a  _sword?_  Why the hell was he  _talking_ to it?

Ratchet shook his head hard and pulled his hand away. He was exhausted, that was all, exhausted and strung out on stimulants and worry, and it was making him silly. Swords weren't alive and they didn't have opinions. If anything, the Circle of Light had probably put a simple artificial intelligence program into that gem and that was what he was sensing. He picked up Drift's hand again and laid it on the stone once more, and this time he was careful not to touch the weapon at all.

The gem flashed when the swordsmech's hand touched it and Ratchet had just about convinced himself that was a reflection from the overhead light before he remembered that the overhead light was off. It flashed again– _smugly–_ and Ratchet glared at the thing. "If you really are anything more than a dumb hunk of metal," he growled at it, "quit messing with me and do something to help  _him_ , will you?"

Then, feeling stupid for talking to an inanimate object and feeling even more stupid for actually asking it for help, he firmly turned his back on it and walked back over to the medical cart.

Instead of choosing supplies from it and carrying them to the cabinet, this time Ratchet pushed the whole cart right up to the side of the berth and folded out the side panels. Drift was resting comfortably right now, but his dire need for fuel and coolant hadn't gone away. If anything, what Ratchet had done had made them even more urgent. He shoved aside a fresh surge of guilt and pulled out two sets of disposable lines–an enteral kit to administer the coolant to his tank without Drift having to wake up to consume it, and an intravenous kit to deliver some much-needed energon. It was the work of moments to get both started and only when Drift was finally starting to receive the fluids he so desperately needed did Ratchet allow himself a moment to breathe.

Only a moment, though. He took a few steps back from the berth–only a few, not enough to put him out of easy EM range, but enough to hopefully keep from disturbing Drift–and opened a comm line to the medbay.  _::First Aid, give me a progress report, and I'm ordering you to make it good news.::_

 _::Perceptor has started synthesizing the special nanite blend and should have enough to administer a test dose in approximately an hour,::_  First Aid immediately replied.  _::How's Drift? How are you? We didn't want to comm you in case you were busy but we've all been worried.::_

Ratchet sighed and rubbed his optics. Logically, he knew that Perceptor had achieved a minor miracle to do this so quickly, but the thought of waiting another hour to even have enough of the special nanites to test on Drift sent his spark down to his pedes. What was he going to do if Drift awakened wanting him again?

_Can't think about that right now._

_::Drift isn't good,::_  Ratchet replied, following it with an encrypted datapacket of the swordsmech's latest medical scan.  _::Tell Perceptor he needs to speed up his process as much as he possibly can. Even a test dose is better than nothing. He can't take another charge.::_  While it would be ideal to give Drift a full dose of nanites, even getting a single overload's worth would at least make his symptoms back off. The coding would have no further need to continue to escalate if they could fool it into thinking it was getting its way at last.

There was a pause while the other medic reviewed the data.  _::Scrap, his system is really fried,::_  First Aid groaned over the link, and Ratchet bit back a growl. Did his second not think he already fragging  _knew_  that?  _::I'll tell Perceptor right away. You didn't answer my second question, though. How are_ you  _holding up, Ratchet?::_

 _::Focus, dammit!::_  Ratchet replied, not bothering to suppress his growl this time. Drift was paralyzed and in constant danger of another catastrophic systems failure right now! Who the frag  _cared_  how he was feeling?  _::You need to be concentrating on Drift right now! Send Ambulon down here the instant Perceptor has something for us, got it?::_

First Aid's tone was perfectly even when he replied, but Ratchet still sensed a hint of something else in it, something that reminded him of that smug fragging sword.  _:: Don't worry, Ratchet, Drift remains our top priority. We will keep you updated on all developments. First Aid out.::_

Ratchet rubbed his optics again when the comm clicked off. An hour had never seemed so long. Would Drift sleep that long? That would be ideal but Ratchet didn't dare hope for it. And what the frag was Ratchet going to do with himself for an hour? He glanced at Drift and remembered holding the swordsmech close during his last nap… but no, that wasn't a good idea. If Ratchet got back in that berth, he was going to fall into recharge whether he wanted to or not. The stimulants Ambulon had given him were definitely helping with the crushing fatigue of his stupor, but his frame took every possible opportunity to remind him that he should  _not_  be up and moving around like this yet. He ached all over, his thoughts crawled when he wanted them to race, his pedes dragged, his armor felt like it weighed several tons, and he thought he would sell his spark to the Unmaker for the promise of an uninterrupted recharge cycle.

Keeping busy was the only way to keep himself awake. His gaze fell on the cart again and this time frustration welled in his spark instead of gratitude.  _Almost everything I could want to do just about any procedure,_  he thought again as he had when he'd first looked inside. His optics traveled over Drift's crushed audial and the still-untreated stab wound in his shoulder. Drift had gotten those wounds fighting to give Ratchet a choice, to keep him safe from a nightmare. He'd taken a beating for Ratchet and hadn't once complained. The medic clenched his fists as frustration boiled through his processor.  _I have everything I need_   _to repair Drift and I can't do_ anything _to help him!_

Drift needed rest almost as much as he had needed coolant and fuel, and Ratchet was afraid to accidentally rouse him. Not to mention that there was approximately a 100% chance that Drift would awaken revved up and wanting him, and after what he'd just done, Ratchet didn't dare touch him that way again for fear of hurting him even worse. But  _not_  touching Drift would hurt him, too, and Ratchet couldn't stand the thought of the swordsmech lying there helpless and aching.

No, Drift needed to stay asleep, to put off the inevitable resurgence of his coding for as long as possible.

But then another thought occurred to him. It was inevitable that Drift's charge was going to build up again, and while Ratchet was afraid to disperse Drift's charge the fun way, maybe he could repair his own damaged ground wiring to make it safe to discharge it through his diagnostic cable again instead. It wasn't like changing out damaged wiring was a difficult procedure–frag, he could do it in his sleep. And he had everything he needed to repair himself right on this cart.

Well, everything but another medic to perform the procedures on him, but Ratchet hadn't served on the front lines for millions of years without occasionally having to operate on himself. It wasn't what he'd call a good time, but he  _could_  do it when there was no other choice.

His gaze fell on Drift again, on the tubes running into his overheated, weakened frame and that peaceful, trusting smile on his face.

_I'm gonna take care of you, Drift. I'll keep you safe._

Ratchet squared his shoulders. This was the definition of  _no other choice._

Decision made, he knelt in front of the cart and started searching through the instruments and spare parts. Once he had what he thought he needed to fix what he could reach and rig bypasses around what he couldn’t, Ratchet settled on the floor beside the berth and retracted his chest armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comeback by Redlight King is pretty much the perfect Drift song. Check out the lyrics. http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/redlightking/comeback.html
> 
> Also, yeah, First Aid ships it HARD.


	12. Falling Inside the Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long! Got distracted by real life (how rude amirite). Hope it's worth the wait?
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING--Drift comes extremely close to a panic attack and remains very frightened through a good portion of the chapter. He also has a brief, non-explicit memory of his past rape. The panic is vividly described, the memory is not.

Drift awakened to desperate emptiness between his thighs and sizzling pain deep in his belly. His frame ached from helm to pedes, every joint throbbing, every plate excruciating, his very protoform blazing-hot and shuddering with agony. He could barely online his optics and even when he managed it, the input strobed erratically. Heat shimmered off him in waves. His audials rang with feedback but every noise seemed magnified, even his vents sounding harsh and far too loud. The sound echoed through his processor in waves of pain. A familiar hilt filled his hand but even a soothing wave of energy from his Great Sword couldn’t penetrate this misery.

This was no longer arousal or the desire to procreate.

This was  _punishment_.

Even the red rust hadn’t hurt this badly. Drift tried to roll over, to find out if a different position would feel better, but his frame utterly refused to obey him. His vents quickened with fear and Drift tried harder, putting every bit of his strength into the attempt to turn over.

His limbs didn’t so much as  _twitch._  Drift gripped the berthcovers hard and turned his head, but that was the extent of the movement of which he was capable. His arms, legs, body,  _everything_  but his neck and hands–his frame might as well have belonged to another mech entirely for all the control he had over it.

Alarmed, he instinctively reached out for Ratchet with his EM field for reassurance.

And the sudden realization that the pain wasn’t what had awakened him set his spark trembling and took him over the edge into real panic. No, what had awakened Drift was the complete _emptiness_ where the medic’s field had been.

Drift’s vents froze and his spark constricted as fear threatened to overwhelm him. Surely Ratchet hadn’t left him alone and helpless? He’d promised to stay, to protect him! How could he have abandoned him like this?

No, in the next instant Drift knew that wasn't true. Ratchet would never have left Drift alone in this condition, wouldn’t have gone back on his word about something so important. That sincerity in his field when he'd vowed to kill anyone who tried to hurt Drift, that had been real. The swordsmech knew to the core of his spark that his trust in the medic wasn’t misplaced.

... but all that meant was that something had  _made_ him leave.

Was Ratchet all right? Had he collapsed from too much activity so soon after his own heat? Had the anti-stupor treatment backfired and hurt him-or worse? 

Had someone broken in and overpowered him?

Truly terrified now, Drift tried to call out for Ratchet, forgetting that his vocalizer was offline again, rendering him mute once more. Even worse, he was facing away from the door so he couldn’t see the rest of his hab suite no matter how he moved his head. He heard and sensed no one nearby, but his EM detectors were damaged too and his range was poor. Anyone could be lurking just out of sight, waiting to leap on him, and he could do nothing but lie here and _wait_.

All he could do was pray to Primus that Ratchet was all right, and that he wouldn't be forced to face his fate alone.

“Easy, Drift, I’m here, I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

Ratchet’s voice cut through his rising terror, almost as though he’d heard the words Drift couldn’t actually say. Heavy footsteps hurried across the suite a few seconds before the berth shifted beneath him and suddenly Ratchet was there, pulling the swordsmech into his arms as his field embraced Drift’s in a wave of gentle caring. Relief crashed over the speedster and Drift used every bit of what little ability to move remained to him to cuddle as close to the medic as possible. Ratchet laced his fingers through Drift’s on one hand so the swordsmech could communicate and wrapped his other arm around his back, drawing him in still closer. It was an awkward embrace with their hands uncomfortably trapped between their bodies and Drift didn’t  _care_  so long as Ratchet didn’t let go. “Shh, sweetspark, I'm here, I wouldn’t leave you. It’s okay. You’re all right.”

That last bit was such a blatant lie that Drift very nearly laughed despite his fear and misery. If  _Ratchet_  was lying, Drift had to be in terrible shape.  _[What happened to your honesty policy]_  Drift managed to sign despite his joints feeling like they’d been rolled in sand.

Ratchet kissed his helm and Drift’s vents caught, then quickened. His agony apparently didn’t prevent him from reacting to the medic’s slightest sign of affection with a surge of lust. “It  _is_  the truth. Even if you’re not all right yet, I won’t stop until you are,” Ratchet growled against his helm crest as his field filled with almost vicious determination. He quickly stifled the strong emotion and his EM projections returned to that soothing near-tranquility, but that flash of adamant resolve had comforted Drift in a way that the gentler emotions couldn’t.

Drift was able to move his free hand enough to stroke a single messy glyph on the medic’s armor, one that combined  _thankfulness_  and  _love_  and  _gratitude_ , and he managed to lean his forehelm against Ratchet’s shoulder as the medic added, “How are you holding up, sweetspark?”

That question shook his brief moment of calm. He’d been weak before, but now… _[I can’t move]_ he signed with trembling fingers. Just admitting it was almost enough to bring the panic back. He focused on Ratchet to drive it away again.  _[What happened to me]_

An unexpected surge of guilt rocked the medic’s field and Drift looked up, confused and worried. Ratchet didn’t seem to be able to meet his optics when he answered. “I… I let things get out of hand, took it too far. Your primary motivator circuits were damaged by the overloads, along with your vocalizer and EM field readers. I should have known better. Damn it, I know it does no good, but I’m sorry, Drift. I’ll… I’ll be more careful from now on, I promise.”

For a moment, all Drift could do was stare. It took him entirely too long to comprehend that Ratchet was actually  _apologizing_  as if what he'd done was some kind of, of _assault_  instead of something Drift had wanted with every byte of his processor, as if it was something Ratchet expected him to regret instead of creating a memory he would cherish until his spark rejoined the Well. How could he think Drift would ever regret hitting the peak interfacing experience of his entire functioning at the hands–and  _mouth_ , sweet Primus–of the mech he loved? He’d had never even imagined  _anything_  could be so amazingly good. Would happily, eagerly sacrifice any circuits in his entire frame for even the slightest  _chance_  of doing that again.

Not to mention how deeply unfair it would be for Drift to hold anything against Ratchet when he’d literally been  _begging_  the medic to touch him. He’d physically put Ratchet’s hand on his valve himself! Anything that happened as a result of that was  _his_  fault, not the medic’s.

No, he couldn’t let Ratchet beat himself up for this.  _[Apology not accepted / don’t you dare be sorry for that]_  Drift signed firmly, choosing glyphs of absolute surety and hoping his field could convey his awe and gratitude and exactly how much he’d loved what Ratchet had done to him.  _[Ratchet, that was–]_

A new wave of suffering swept through Drift before he could finish signing, slashing the thoughts right out of his processor. As hard as he tried to prevent it, he knew the pain was bleeding out into his field. The swordsmech offlined his optics again and concentrated on just breathing through the pain.

“Oh, kid,” Ratchet whispered, holding him tighter and pressing their forehelms together. “Vent with me, in and out, just like that. It’ll be all right. Just keep venting. You’re going to be all right, I swear.”

Focusing on Ratchet helped–his voice, his scent, the calming reassurance in his field, the gentle circles he rubbed on Drift’s back with his free hand. It wasn’t meant to arouse him, Drift knew, but even through the pain, it did anyway.

Damn it all, even being in the same  _room_  with Ratchet aroused him, and Drift was afraid only some of that was due to his heat cycle. A week ago, he’d have happily given his sword arm to have the medic hold him like this even once. And what Ratchet had done with his mouth and those gloriously talented fingers… he shuddered as his valve throbbed and that insistent hunger escalated until he thought he would go mad with it.

He wanted more. He  _needed_  it. But even so, Drift wasn’t sure that a simple overload would erase his symptoms this time. And even if it would help, would Ratchet do it again after what had happened last time? He’d offered to use his hands and mouth to ease Drift’s symptoms when Ambulon left and he hadn’t hesitated to make good on that offer, but that guilt had been so profound…

He had to convince Ratchet that he had nothing to feel guilty for. Drift had never known pleasure like Ratchet had shown him, and the medic had done it all without ‘facing him even once.

_Oh, but I wish he could… I wish I could’ve known what his spike feels like inside me just once…_

Drift pushed the thought away and focused on the pain to clear his mind. Slowly the agony receded enough for him to sign understandably to Ratchet again, but although he wanted to ask the medic to touch him again, he didn’t quite dare.  _[Shouldn’t the code shut down soon]_  he asked instead, because he knew that once his system took enough damage from the out-of-control heat programming, it would all stop. There was no point in continuing to push once Drift was too damaged to successfully carry a sparkling to term. His systems would be wrecked, but at least he wouldn’t be in heat anymore, and that was worth enduring just about any kind of damage Drift could think of.

Ratchet’s field thrummed with worry and he squeezed Drift tighter. “Soon,” he murmured against his helm, and this time Drift felt the lie with every sense he possessed. “It’ll stop soon.”

Unlike when he’d told Drift he’d be okay, Ratchet didn’t believe this.

Drift squeezed his hand as sharply as his weak fingers could manage, a wordless rebuke. Ratchet held him still harder, but when Drift did it again, he sighed. “It should have stopped already,” the medic admitted at last. “Your coding is badly glitched, Drift. It should never have activated at all after you helped me, but it did. It should’ve released you when you blew your motivator circuits earlier, too, but it didn't. I don’t know what’s going to happen if we don’t find another way soon.”

Left unsaid was the logical end result. Either Drift was going to have to let someone else frag him through his heat, or it was going to kill him.

Despite the heat sizzling through his system, Drift felt like his spark had been dropped in ice. Memories of strangers’ frames and too many greedy hands welled up and he tried to scream  _no_  before remembering that he had no voice.

 _[Don’t let them have me]_  Drift signed frantically, the glyphs sloppy as he clung to Ratchet with every last bit of strength he possessed. It wasn’t much and that didn’t help at all.  _[Please no please]_

“Shh, love,” Ratchet whispered, curling around Drift, shielding him with his own frame as his field firmed around the speedster’s, possessive and determined. “ _No one_  is going to touch you but me. That’s a promise, Drift. We aren’t out of options yet.”

Drift looked up at him, fear and dread and desire and pain warring within him to the point where he thought he’d lose his mind, and Ratchet was his only anchor in the storm.  _What options?_  he mouthed, too overwhelmed even to sign.

Ratchet cupped his cheek and leaned his forehelm against Drift’s again. “An idea Ambulon and I had, that Perceptor has been working on,” he said softly. “Something we hope might trick your coding. Ambulon delivered the test dose just before you woke up–that’s why I was at the door instead of here with you when you woke up. Can I try it?”

Drift didn’t even have to think about it. He trusted the medic implicitly, knew Ratchet would never suggest anything that would damage him physically or mentally. He nodded without hesitation and sensed Ratchet’s smile more than saw it.

“Brave mech,” Ratchet murmured, his deep voice turning those two words into something beautiful. “I’m so proud of you.”

Such simple words, ones that could even be taken as condescending were it not for the medic’s tone. They still made Drift shiver. Primus, he didn’t feel brave, he felt weak and defenseless and scared, and despite it all, Ratchet’s field held nothing but tenderness and honest admiration. Drift closed his optics and forced himself to sign calmly even though his fingers were shaking.  _[What do we need to do]_  he asked, hoping it wouldn’t be too painful. He could withstand a lot, but even he had his limits and he’d reached them.

“Don’t worry. It’s not going to hurt,” Ratchet whispered as though he’d read Drift’s mind again. He stroked his thumb over the swordsmech’s cheek. “I’ll make sure you enjoy it.”

Drift shuddered with desperate longing as the medic tilted his head and kissed him again. Instantly every other sensation in his frame flashed straight to  _lust._  Drift couldn’t hold back a groan as he passionately returned Ratchet's kiss–

–but no sound emerged, reminding him that his vocalizer was still offline.

Far from being an unwelcome reminder of his condition, the realization sent relief coursing through him. Now he didn’t have to  _try_  to be quiet anymore.

Not that he’d been succeeding anyway, although Drift couldn’t really be blamed for that.  _No one_  could stay silent with Ratchet fragging him with that acrobatic glossa and moaning like his valve was the best thing the medic had ever tasted–

That same glossa swept over Drift’s now and the speedster stopped thinking entirely.  _Primus,_  he wanted to touch, to caress Ratchet as he had during the medic’s heat, to give him the same pleasure he was giving Drift, but he couldn’t move. The best he could do was kiss him with every bit of love and desire in his spark. He could kiss Ratchet forever and die a happy mech.

Ratchet deepened the kiss, glossa and lips laying claim to Drift’s mouth as his field filled with the same intense focus he’d had the last time they’d kissed. Drift’s heat coding didn’t know quite what to do with that. It was clear that the medic was enjoying this, but there was no sexual component to his pleasure for the coding to manipulate and amplify. Once again, it compensated by increasing Drift’s arousal even more, and he managed to move enough to curl his fingers around Ratchet’s collar assembly and pull him a little closer in the only plea he could make.

The medic nipped at his lower lip in response and the sting sent a bolt of electricity through Drift’s frame. He was about to try to sign a plea into Ratchet’s hand when the medic moved, shifting so Drift could lie on his back instead of his side. He released the swordsmech’s hand and reached for something, one knee pressing between Drift’s and pushing them apart while the kiss didn’t slow for a single instant.

Then Ratchet’s hand returned. Something touched the rim of Drift’s slick and aching valve and he knew immediately that it wasn’t one of the medic’s fingers. Thicker and smoother, it stretched his rim just right. His optics flew open and he gasped as a blunt tip pressed inside him, filling the emptiness at last. Drift shuddered as it retreated, then returned, pressing deeper this time.

Ratchet finally pulled away from his lips and pressed his mouth to Drift’s audial flare instead. “Is this all right?” he murmured, that deep gravelly voice doing something indescribable to Drift’s nerves, and all he could do was nod frantically as Ratchet worked whatever-it-was deeper inside him with every movement.

If he didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn it was Ratchet’s spike. In the next instant, Drift decided he didn’t  _care_  what it really was, and he closed his optics and pretended it really  _was_  Ratchet’s spike inside him, filling him up so perfectly. His aversion to being fragged during his heat absolutely didn’t apply to getting fragged by  _Ratchet_ , and if this was how the medic planned to fool his heat coding, Drift was one hundred percent on-board for it. As the false spike pushed past the deepest nodes Ratchet’s fingers had been able to reach and slid into the untouched parts of his valve, his entire frame lit up with delight. Ratchet pulled his leg up and draped it over the medic’s hip, further reinforcing the fantasy, and Drift discovered that the immobility of his frame hadn’t affected his valve calipers. They clenched around the intrusion, intensifying the sensation with every thrust and retreat until his throat ached with silent moans.

Drift’s mouth gaped open with ecstasy and his fans roared as the spike finally nudged his ceiling node. Just that single gentle touch was enough to send him into a screaming, arching overload–or what would’ve been one, if he’d been able to scream or arch. Ratchet pressed hard against him and shuddered, venting hot on his audial, and that only took him higher. Maybe the medic couldn’t overload with him, but oh, that reinforced the fantasy in the very best way, and Drift’s processor gave him the vivid recollection of how beautiful Ratchet had looked in the throes of pleasure during his own heat and how he’d moaned Drift’s name over and over in glorious abandon, and the swordsmech’s overload stretched out so long it felt like it would never end–

But the surge of charge didn’t rip through his internals in a wave of fire like it had last time, and when the pleasure finally released him, Drift forced his optics online again to find out why.

It took him a moment to spot it, and it didn’t help that Ratchet was still thrusting that false spike in and out of his valve and  _slagging pit it felt so_ damned  _good_  but he forced himself to keep looking.

And then he saw the medical diagnostic cables plugged into his forearm. Ratchet was drawing off the excess charge into his own systems just like he had in the washracks, and hadn’t Ambulon said he couldn’t do that again?

Then Ratchet’s thumb stroked across his anterior node and Drift couldn’t think about anything except the incredible pleasure of his lover’s touch. Drift’s inability to press into the sensation, to thrust his hips in time with that false spike, was frustrating as frag but Ratchet seemed to know  _exactly_  how to touch him to drive him wild even without him being able to give the medic any feedback. Another overload was building fast, racing toward him with the force of a freight train, and Drift turned his head to press his face to Ratchet’s throat and kiss every place he could reach with his limited mobility. He didn’t know if the medic was capable of enjoying that right now but Ratchet had definitely loved it when Drift had kissed his throat during his heat, and Drift suckled at the big energon line and prayed he was giving Ratchet even a fraction of the pleasure the medic was giving him.

Ratchet gave a groan that sounded half pained, half frustrated, and then he bent and kissed Drift again. He moved the false spike faster, thrusting harder, and Drift felt like he was going to explode with pleasure. He kept his optics offline and imagined–

_–Ratchet’s frame pressed between his thighs, slamming his spike in deep, their hips clanging with the force of his thrusts as he took Drift hard, playing the speedster’s frame like he owned it, kissing him the entire time and pinning Drift’s wrists above his helm with one hand and trapping his hips with the other, holding him completely immobile, giving him no choice but to–_

Drift’s valve spasmed in possibly the most powerful overload he’d ever experienced. Ratchet groaned into the kiss and Drift could’ve sworn he tasted charge on the medic’s lips, but that wasn’t possible, was it?

“Yes, that’s the way, let go for me,” Ratchet growled, still working that false spike– _no, working his hips, working_ his _spike in Drift’s valve–_ hard and fast as his lips caressed Drift’s sensor-packed audial with every word, that deep voice rumbling through the speedster at every point where their frames pressed together. “One more time, love. Overload for me one more time, I know you can, I know you want to. Oh, I wish I could hear you, Drift, you have no idea how fragging  _beautiful_  you sound when you overload, how gorgeous you are when the pleasure takes you. I wish I could make you feel as good as you made me feel, wish I could please you that well, I didn’t know it was possible to overload  _that many times_  and  _frag_  I wish I could do that for you now, wish I could satisfy you until you forget everything but my name… Do you know how much I loved hearing you scream my name like you made me scream yours? Overload for me, let me read it from your lips this time, Drift,  _let go for me._ ”

That spike was hitting his ceiling node with every thrust but it was hearing Ratchet talk about how amazingly well Drift had pleased him during his own heat, hearing those sexy words in that  _voice_ of his, that catapulted him into overload for the third time. The long-ingrained habit of restraint had Drift biting his cheek hard enough to taste energon before he could think about it, but when Ratchet pulled back to watch his overload and those murmured words replayed in his mind, the swordsmech made himself stop. No longer trying to hold back, no longer trying to hide, Drift threw his head back and silently screamed his lover’s name again and again as pleasure rushed outward from his valve and filled his frame with fire and heat–

–and suddenly the spike inside him pressed deep and a burst of charge erupted from it as heated fluid rushed from its tip. It felt exactly like an overload and the sensation was so unexpected that Drift’s optics flashed back online. He stared up into Ratchet’s intense gaze as the iris sealing his gestation chamber spiraled open for the first time during this entire ordeal and hungrily drew the fluid up inside. The sensation triggered Drift to overload yet again. A new burst of charge from the spike surged back through his valve as it released another jet of fluid. His chamber sucked it up just as eagerly as it had the first and Drift shuddered from helm to pedes with shock and ecstasy as his overloads echoed back into him through the spike and sent him back over in an erotic feedback loop unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it ended. As soon as it did, a wave of cool relief washed through Drift’s systems, spreading outward from his core all the way to his fingertips and pedes.  _The heat coding… it was relenting!_ Drift couldn’t keep the astonishment from his face or field as Ratchet gently withdrew the false spike from his valve and whispered, “Did that help?”

Optical lubricant pooled in Drift’s optics before he could blink it away.  _Primus,_   _Primus,_  the cessation of the grinding pain and desperation of the heat coding was so intense that he couldn’t even think to nod. All he could do was stare at Ratchet in shock.

Ratchet dropped the spike and cupped his face in his hands, every line of his face screaming worry. “Drift? Oh no, oh slag, did I hurt you again? Please say I didn’t hurt you, oh frag Drift I’m sorry, I was trying to be careful–”

Drift finally shook his head. No, this was the  _opposite_  of hurting, and he wanted Ratchet to take his hand again so he could try to express his wonder and relief, but the medic didn’t. Instead Ratchet wrapped his arms around the speedster and held him tight as his field churned with mingled relief and concern. “It didn’t hurt you,” he whispered, “but did it  _help?_  Do you think it fooled your coding?”

The swordsmech managed to hook a fingertip on a ridge of Ratchet’s armor and he used that precarious hold to pull his hand the rest of the way up. Once he had a grip on the medic’s hip, he squeezed tight–it wasn’t as good as a proper chirolingual hand-hold, but it was good enough for him to sign a  _[yes]_  he hoped the medic could understand as he emphatically nodded.

Ratchet let out a sob against his shoulder. “Oh thank Primus,” he gasped, and if anything could shock Drift, it was hearing the determinedly atheistic medic say  _that._  He squeezed Drift tighter and was he actually crying? Drift held him as best he could with one hand and pressed his face to the side of Ratchet’s helm, hardly able to believe that the medic was  _this relieved_  over  _him._

It had to be the medic's stupor making him act this way. Ratchet was a  _rock,_ unwavering in his strength. Nothing but pure exhaustion could put a crack in his armor like this. Drift tried to fill his field with admiration and tenderness, wishing so hard that he could just hug the medic tight, to give Ratchet comfort and reassurance for once instead of only taking it.

It took several minutes for Ratchet to pull himself together. Embarrassment heated his field and his face went hot against Drift’s shoulder plating, but he didn’t move or loosen his embrace as he opened a comm line. This close to the medic, Drift couldn’t help but pick up on every word.

Ratchet’s voice was still thick with emotion when he spoke over the line. _::Perceptor, it works. Send me as much as you can. How quickly can you have it here?::_

The scientist responded after only a moment.  _::I’ve found a way to increase the rate of production by 23%, which means that my initial estimation to manufacture a suitable amount of nanites has been considerably foreshortened. The synthesis of the base liquid matrix will–::_

 _::PERCEPTOR. No one fragging cares about any of that,::_  Ratchet interrupted with a growl, and Drift laughed silently at this confirmation that the medic was recovering to his usual acerbic self.  _::Just tell me, in five monosyllabic words, how long until you can send Ambulon with more?::_

This time the brief pause seemed offended.  _::My best estimate is three hours,::_  Perceptor finally replied, and yes, he definitely sounded offended.

It was six words and one was polysyllabic, but Ratchet didn’t complain. A simple six-word answer from Perceptor was grounds for celebration.  _::Good. Update me if anything changes. Ratchet out.::_

Only then did Ratchet raise his head. He looked down at Drift and smiled, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit self-conscious of the optical lubricant on his cheeks. “It’s almost over now,” he said, wiping Drift’s own tears of relief away. “You’re going to be okay.”

But Drift’s own smile immediately faded. One of Ratchet’s optics was dark, the glass scorched as though from an electrical short.

He immediately understood what the medic had done through those diagnostic cables. In gathering Drift’s excess charge and returning it to him with the dose of nanites to mimic a genuine overload, Ratchet had overwhelmed his own wiring.

This was the result–he’d blown out his own optic. And that was only the damage Drift could  _see._  Anything could be hidden inside Ratchet’s processor.

And if they were going to do this again as many times as the coding needed, it was only going to get worse.

Before Drift could find a way to demand that Ratchet take his hand again so he could tell the medic that he was  _not allowed to hurt himself like that, Primusdammit,_  the combination of his physical exhaustion and the easing of his heat symptoms dragged him down into a recharge so deep it felt like falling in a black hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the lyrics for anyone who's interested: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/skillet/fallinginsidetheblack.html


	13. Falls On Me

Ambulon hurried through the  _Lost Light_ , very conscious of the precious vial stashed carefully in his subspace. Perceptor had rushed as much as he possibly could–and when Perceptor said it was impossible to go any faster, you could bet your spark that it really was  _impossible–_ but even though he’d streamlined his process and shaved his original estimate down by a considerable amount, it had still taken far longer than anyone had wanted to create enough nanites to fully satisfy Drift’s heat.

It hadn’t helped that Brainstorm had burst into Perceptor’s lab and tossed a datapad onto his workstation to show him some new project, unaware of the life-or-death work the scientist was doing. That datapad had knocked over the vial of collected nanites, making Perceptor have to start all over again. The scientist’s outraged shouts had been audible a considerable distance down the corridor and although he’d done his best to make up for lost time, his three-hour estimate had stretched to well over four by the time he called Ambulon to let him know that they finally had enough.

And no one had heard from Ratchet or Drift once in all that time.

The lift stopped on the command quarters level and Ambulon was out of there before the doors were even all the way open. Instinctively, he started looking for Ultra Magnus. Ambulon hoped no one ever told the speedster that they’d had to take this particular precaution, but the amount of pheromones he was putting out had long since overwhelmed the ship’s filtration system. Red Alert was now venting the atmosphere from Drift’s hab suite directly into space, bypassing all the filters, but enough had escaped before they’d implemented that solution that other receptive mecha were either getting triggered or getting…  _interested_. So far there had been no incidents near Drift’s hab, but every time that door opened, the risk increased.

So First Aid had used his authority as temporary CMO to cordon off the area immediately around the command staff’s quarters and station guards. Luckily Rodimus had finally fallen into his stupor and been moved to the medbay, and Ultra Magnus was the very first mech they’d approached about this duty. Tired as the SIC was, he was also big and imposing and most importantly of all, he was temporarily _immune to heat pheromones_ , and that was exactly what they needed with the high levels Drift was producing.

Whirl had been in the medbay when Aid had explained the situation to Magnus, and despite Aid’s best efforts, he’d overheard. And then he’d stunned everyone by immediately volunteering to stand guard too. They’d all turned to stare at him and he’d planted his claws on his hips indignantly. “Okay, yeah, I’m a complete slag-bastard and we all know I have no special love for Drift, but what makes any of you think that means I’d stand aside and let him get raped? Frag that, and  _frag you_  for thinking it! I hate that Primusdamned heat coding more than I could ever tell you and you need someone who won’t hesitate to shoot if some revved-up slagger gets too close. You’re not gonna find anyone better for that job than me so do you want my damn help or not?”

“We want it, Whirl. Thank you,” Ultra Magnus replied, and Ambulon had given the ex-Wrecker a larger-than-usual dose of heat suppressant just to make sure he was ready.

Lancet had approached Cyclonus when he’d ushered Tailgate into the medbay a few minutes later so the minicon could request a heat suppressant for himself. Tailgate had turned that big, trusting visor up at Cyclonus once Lancet had quietly explained the problem and said, “Of course he’ll help! Won’t you, Cyclonus?” and the ancient fighter had simply nodded and accepted a dose of his own.

Together the three were a formidable barrier between Drift and anyone who might have any thought of trying to break in and answer the call his heat coding was broadcasting far and wide.

Ambulon himself had been staying close as much as possible, too. For one thing, Ratchet and Drift were the most critically endangered health-wise of any mecha on the ship, but for another, he knew that the prophylaxis was not perfect. Should Whirl or Cyclonus show any concerning signs, he wanted to be there with a sedative ready before it turned into a problem. He’d been dividing his time between the overwhelmed medbay, Perceptor’s lab, and this corridor.

Every time he started to feel the pull of exhaustion, Ambulon remembered that Ratchet was pushing himself  _through his own stupor_  to help Drift. He could do no less just because he was a little tired.

The closer Ambulon got to Drift’s corridor now, the more mecha he noticed casually loitering in the hallways. None of them were really  _doing_  anything–they weren’t being loud, or disruptive, or overtly threatening, or getting too close to the border of the forbidden zone. Nothing that could really be seen as grounds to order them to disperse. They were just… there, standing together in small groups or leaning against the bulkheads, and all facing the same direction.

The same direction Ambulon was going.

The medic quickened his step and didn’t meet anyone’s optics until he turned the final corner and caught sight of Ultra Magnus. The enormous enforcer stood with his back to Drift’s door, glaring over his shoulder at the nearest group of mecha as though daring them to move any closer. Cyclonus and Whirl stood a little bit ahead of him, Cyclonus with his arms crossed and no expression at all on his face, and Whirl alternatively clacking his claws or pointedly examining one of his blasters. Both looked ready to beat the pit out of anyone who got within striking distance.

The body language had definitely escalated since the last time Ambulon had been here. If they didn’t end this soon, the medic didn’t want to think about what might happen.

He’d seen that kind of thing before and it was never pretty.

Cyclonus and Whirl parted to let him past and he heard them moving back into place as soon as he squeezed between them. “Everything all right?” he asked Ultra Magnus, glancing back at the nearest mecha. “Anything happen?”

“No. Nothing has happened,” Magnus said, his voice deep and stern and clearly intended to reach the loitering mecha. “And nothing will.”

Ambulon glanced back and shivered. He quickly returned his attention to the SIC. “I need to open the door again,” he said quietly. “Might be nice if none of them were within rushing distance when I do. Can you–”

He didn’t even have to finish the sentence. Whirl leapt forward and shouted, “All right, back off, you scrap-sniffing slaggers! Down to the lift with the lot of you!”

“Or what?” someone shouted back, and Whirl clasped his claws together gleefully.

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked!” he said, drawing both blasters eagerly. “Because you see, this wonderful,  _magical_  thing has happened to me and I have been  _dying_  to tell you about it. Our illustrious second-in-command here–excuse me, our  _Acting Captain_ –has authorized me to shoot anyone I fragging well deem a threat and every last one of you just look all kinds of threatening to me right now. Please continue, I haven’t gotten to shoot anyone in so long and Brainstorm just upgraded my blasters and I can’t  _wait_  to–oh, come on, come back!” he wailed in disappointment as the gathered mecha retreated as one. “Aww, not even  _one_ of you is gonna stay? Dammit, how am I supposed to find out what my new upgrades do if you won’t even let me shoot you? Come on, just  _one_  of you fraggers, it won’t hurt! Well, it might not hurt–it could hurt. Maybe it’ll hurt. Okay, it’ll probably hurt, and in ways I can’t imagine. Let’s find out! C’mon,  _please?_ ”

Ambulon shook his head at Whirl’s antics as he chased the mecha back down the hall, lamenting loudly about their cowardice the whole way. Not wanting to give them any chance to slip past the ex-Wrecker and come racing back, the medic quickly laid his hand on the scanner and said, “Medical Officer Ambulon overriding quarantine protocols. Entry requested with immediate lockdown reinstated afterward. Confirm.”

“Confirmed, Ambulon,” the computer replied, and Drift’s door slid open to admit him.

He ducked inside the dark suite as quickly as he possibly could and the door slammed shut so close behind him that he could’ve sworn it took a layer of paint off his aft, but he heard no reaction to his abrupt entry. The heavy scent of heat pheromones and ozone filled the silent space, coating his olfactory receptors. The full force Drift’s rioting EM field hit him and momentarily swamped even his processor and field with dizziness.

Primus, no wonder the sharkticons were circling outside. Drift’s coding was broadcasting its call loud and clear in his EM field and even the muting effect of the walls could only do so much. “Ratchet?” Ambulon called as he shook his head and focused, thanking Primus once again for sparing him this. He didn’t understand how other mecha could stand it. “Ratchet, are you two all right?”

“Depends on if you have what I hope you have,” Ratchet answered, his voice emerging hoarse and clearly exhausted from the darkness. “Otherwise I think we’re in some trouble.”

“What? What’s happened to Drift?” Ambulon asked as his optics finally adjusted and he started to hurry over toward where he knew the berth was hidden in the shadows.

A bolt of fear rocked the swordsmech’s field and was instantly followed by a warning growl from Ratchet’s engine. “ _Stay away!_ ” Ratchet snarled, and the menace in his tone stopped the other medic so fast that he actually skidded a few inches. Ambulon had heard that tone from imprinted mecha before and it usually preceded an attack to defend their mate. Ratchet’s coding might not be fully functional right now, but he was damn well showing the protective behaviors of an imprinted mech.

Ambulon didn’t dare to move as Drift’s field throbbed with distress. “Just… just stay over there and be quiet. I’ll come to you,” Ratchet said a few moments later in a much calmer tone although the strain to make it that way still showed. Drift’s terror spiked hard enough at the mention of Ratchet coming over to make Ambulon wince.

Ambulon drew his own field in as tightly as he could and retreated until he could put Drift’s long couch between himself and the berth, giving Ratchet as much time as he needed to calm the speedster. They weren’t speaking and he sensed nothing from Ratchet’s own field, but whatever he was doing was working because slowly the intensity of Drift’s EM projections began to ease a little.

He set his optics to heat-vision to try to see the pair while he waited, wanting to know how much had changed since he’d left earlier. Drift was running so hot that the entire berth was basically a blaze of white so he reluctantly went back to the visual spectrum. Even on the most sensitive setting, Ratchet and Drift were visible as only two vague shapes in the darkness, and he belatedly realized that neither of them were showing the slightest glimmer of biolights. He started to ask about it out of pure reflex but shut his mouth again with a snap before the words escaped.

As worn out as Drift and Ratchet both were, their frames had probably shut down their biolights to conserve energy. And in the grand scheme of things, their biolights were the very least of their worries. Much more concerning was the complete silence and lack of movement from the berth. Ratchet had said he was coming over, but it had been several minutes now and Ambulon couldn’t detect any motion over there at all. He knew Drift had been mostly incapacitated by the damage from that near burn-out earlier, but was Ratchet also unable to move?

He  _really_  did not want to have to go over there and find out.

It took several more minutes before Ambulon finally glimpsed movement from the berth. One shadow detached itself from the other and slowly stood. Drift’s field was completely out of control now, broadcasting tangled blasts of emotion so chaotically that Ambulon had to manually turn down his own EM readers to minimum. It was that or risk being overwhelmed by the sheer power of the  _revulsion/invitation/terror/lust_  emanating from him in waves. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. It’s all right, sweetspark. It’s almost over, it’ll be all right,” he heard Ratchet murmur, and then slow, weary footsteps finally started crossing the distance between the berth and his position behind the couch.

Ambulon had to clench both hands on the back of the couch to prevent himself from meeting Ratchet halfway. The Chief Medical Officer moved like it was taking strength he didn’t really possess to do so. One leg dragged a little with each step, scraping on the metal floor. Every medical protocol Ambulon possessed demanded that he rush over and  _do something to help_  but he firmly reminded them that going even one step closer to Drift would do nothing but provoke a fight none of them could afford. Ratchet didn’t have the energy for it, and Ambulon couldn’t risk anything that might damage the vial of nanites.

So he waited.

Ratchet stumbled when he reached the couch and that was the last straw Ambulon could take. He darted forward and caught him, bearing up the heavier medic and managing to keep him upright. “Ratchet–”

Ratchet cut him off over the comm.  _::Don’t. Don’t say it. I know the shape I’m in but he's been out of it enough that he doesn’t, and he doesn’t_ need _to. All he needs to hear you say is that you’ve brought us the nanites.::_

“I’ve brought you the nanites,” Ambulon said aloud, hoping Drift was listening, and then he switched back to the comms too.  _::Ratchet, what the slag have you_ done _to yourself?::_  he demanded, looking him up and down in the dim glow of his own biolights. The older medic’s chestplate wasn’t sitting right and hints of wiring were just visible around the edges. His medical cables were unspooled and hung down from his arm and they weren’t the same scorched, half-melted cables Ambulon had seen half a day ago in the washracks. They had obviously been replaced.

A terrible certainty crashed over Ambulon. He stared at his superior officer in mingled horror and outrage. _::You’ve been doing it again, haven’t you?::_  he demanded furiously.  _::You repaired yourself just enough that you could go back to bleeding off his charge! Even knowing it’s hurting you, even knowing that it could–::_

 _::What I’ve been doing is_ saving his fragging life, _::_ Ratchet growled back.  _::I’ve been doing whatever it takes to keep him online while we waited for these nanites! You have no fragging idea what this is doing to him and_ yes, _dammit, I slapped together whatever repairs I could so I could keep him going, and I don’t need you second-guessing–::_

“Ratchet,” Ambulon said quietly as the rant washed over him. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do for you  _both._  You do know that, right?” When Ratchet didn’t respond, he switched back to comms.  _::I want Drift to survive just as much as you do, but I want_ you  _to survive this, too. You’ve lost patients in stupor just like I have. You know exactly what just being active right now is doing to your systems, and that’s without adding any extra stress on top of it.::_

 _::I know what I’m doing, Ambulon,::_  Ratchet said, lifting his head and glaring at the younger medic.

And Ambulon finally got a good look at his haggard, weary face and its burned out optic, and the silence from Ratchet’s field even when he was so clearly angry made Ambulon certain that he’d damaged his EM systems to the point that he could only read, not send projections of his own. It was the only explanation for Ratchet's failure to soothe Drift with his own field that made sense, and suddenly Ambulon’s temper snapped.

 _::Do you? Do you also know that you’re not_ invincible, _Ratchet?::_  he shouted over the comm.  _::You’re not_ immortal _and you are sure as pit not fragging_ expendable _! I know you’re grooming First Aid to take over for you as CMO but ever since this started, all he’s been saying is how much he is_ not ready  _to take your place. We_ need _you, Primus damn you, and I’m not going to stand here like a quiet little obedient drone and watch you throw your life away for one mech!::_

Ratchet stared at him for a moment, jaw dropping, and Ambulon wondered how long it had been since anyone had spoken to the legendary Autobot Chief Medical Officer Ratchet like that, but finally decided he didn’t care. Ratchet could hit him if he wanted, fire him if he wanted, kick him off the  _Lost Light_  at the next mech-friendly world if that’s what he wanted, but whatever Ratchet did to Ambulon, he needed to hear that.

Ratchet blinked, swayed a little, and finally hung his head. “You’re a good medic, Ambulon,”he said, and that was all.

 _::And you’re going to keep right on doing what you’re doing, aren’t you.::_  It wasn’t a question and Ratchet didn’t answer it. Ambulon sighed harshly.  _::Will you give me half an hour with that cart to try to at least fix the worst of the damage to your ground wiring before you do? I know you’ve already done some of it,::_  he added when Ratchet looked up sharply.  _::But I also know you couldn’t have done it right by yourself. If you’re going to continue to be stupid, at least let me do this much so I don’t have to live with your death on my conscience.::_

Ratchet didn’t get a chance to answer. A blast of energy from Drift’s EM field exploded through the room hard enough to make both medics wince, and that was even with Ambulon’s field readers turned down to minimum. “I think we just ran out of time,” Ratchet said, and much as Ambulon hated it, he had to agree.

He opened his subspace to retrieve the nanites and looked up at Ratchet, wondering if there was anything he could say to convince the CMO to be more careful when he administered them.

But he didn't get a chance to say anything at all.

 _::Ambulon, Ratchet, I cannot allow this door to be opened again until Drift’s situation is resolved.::_  

The unexpected comm from Ultra Magnus was punctuated with a crash against Drift’s door. The impact triggered Drift’s secondary blast doors to slam into place over the exit and Ratchet and Ambulon stared at each other in horror as he continued,  _::We can sense his field out here more than ever now. Whatever you are going to do, I strongly advise you to do it immediately.::_

Ratchet held out his hand, that single optic burning urgently.  _“Give them to me,_ ” he hissed, and Ambulon reached into his subspace for the vial.

“Do you know how to reload the–” Ambulon began, but Ratchet snatched it out of his hand before he could finish.

“I’ll fragging well figure it out,” he said. He straightened up and gave the younger medic a little push toward the washracks that required no explanation. Ambulon nodded–if he couldn’t give Drift and Ratchet their privacy by leaving, at least he could give them the illusion of it by going into the other room. He hurried away and heard Ratchet’s unsteady footsteps rushing back toward the berth.

And then the washracks door closed behind him. Ambulon stood there for a moment, debating whether or not to turn on the shower to mask any noises he might overhear. He had no desire to be a voyeur, as accidental as it might be.

In the end, though, he knew his own comfort came second to the needs of his patients. A quick internal command string extinguished his own biolights and Ambulon turned off the washracks lights too before silently sliding the door a few inches open.

Then he knelt by the tiny crack, optics fixed on the main doorway, and drew his own blaster. He had no illusions that he could stop anyone who managed to get past Whirl, Cyclonus, and Ultra Magnus, but at least he could slow them down and give Ratchet every possible moment to end Drift’s heat cycle without violence.

 _Please, Primus,_  Ambulon thought fervently, his hands surgeon-steady around the grip of his blaster.  _Please let this work, and let it work_ quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your lyrics! http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/fuel/fallsonme.html


	14. If You Only Knew

Drift couldn’t feel his frame.

At all.

If he couldn’t feel his frame, did that mean he had one?

Drift floated in hazy incomprehension for a while, turning that fact over in his mind and trying to decide whether or not he existed. It was a harder question to answer than one might think. Existence didn’t depend on the frame, after all–he’d learned that much in New Crystal City–but other things were missing, too. He wasn’t in pain, which was nice for a change, and he didn’t seem to be particularly worried about anything, which was definitely nice for a change, but both seemed to indicate that he wasn’t real. Life had never been painless or worry-free.

Then again, if he didn’t have a frame anymore, what was there to hurt or worry about?

Drift turned that over in his mind for a little bit longer. He did seem to have memories to inform his opinion and a mind to consider it with, so perhaps the answer was that he was in fact real, but dead.

The thought didn’t bring the reaction he’d always thought it would. There was no relief, for one thing, and he’d always thought he’d be glad to put his burdens down. Instead, Drift felt… incomplete, like he’d been stopped in the middle of doing something important. Or maybe he’d been with  _someone_  important. Whatever it was, he hadn’t been ready to leave it. Whatever it was, it felt deeply wrong to die with it unfinished.

With some surprise, he realized that he didn’t  _want_  to be dead. Being dead just now would be really, truly upsetting.

But… no. Further reflection didn’t bear out the  _real-but-dead_  theory. The lack of a blessed welcoming light or dark otherworldly pull drawing his spark to either the Well or the Dead Universe seemed to argue against that. No, Drift was pretty sure that he was still alive. Relief rose and slipped away too quickly to make much of an impression, and then he was floating again, numb.

Calmly, blissfully numb.

It felt rather familiar, actually.

And that realization finally got a reaction from him.  _Desensitized, floating, weightless, unreal–_

_–oh Primus, I’m high._

“Hello, First Aid? Lancet? You’d better come over. Something just changed in his readings.”

Drift shoved back against the numbness and tried every way he could think of to fight his way free of the drugged fog.  _He didn’t use anymore, Primusdammit!_  He’d been clean for so long, for  _so fragging long,_  so why had he done this? Why had he gone back to boosting after he’d fought so hard to keep himself away from it? Anguished self-recriminations cut him to the core and he fought harder. He had promised himself that he would never use again, had made a solemn oath before Primus, had  _sworn on his very spark_ , and now here he was, ruining everything again the way he always did, throwing away all he’d accomplished, going back down a road that led nowhere but to the Dead End–

“Drift, calm down, calm _down_. Someone needs to come in here now!”

That voice–Drift knew that voice, knew it from a hundred missions and a thousand pinpoint accurate shots from impossible distances. Was that… was that  _Perceptor?_

The sniper’s presence was strange enough to break through Drift’s distress. Why would Perceptor be here? One of Drift’s most firmly-held rules was never to get high where anyone could find and take advantage of him. He only ever boosted when he knew he could be  _alone_. Had–oh, no, had Drift actually gone on a mission slagged out of his processor? He whimpered, loathing himself even more. He’d fallen further than he’d thought. The Wreckers didn’t go on easy missions, and not only had he let himself down, now he was putting one of the few people who actually cared about him in danger by getting high!

Hating himself for his failures, Drift clawed at his frame, determined to rip open his own fuel lines and  _bleed the damned drugs out of himself,_  get rid of it in the fastest way he knew how–

“Hurry, please, he’s coming around badly,” Perceptor called again and his voice sounded strained, making Drift aware for the first time that something was holding him down.

No.

Not some _thing._

Some _one_  was holding him down. Holding him down on a berth, using the weight of their frame to pin him.

 _no no not again don’t touch me DON’T TOUCH ME_   ** _GET AWAY_ **

Panic exploded through him and Drift fought with all his strength to throw his attacker off. All his strength didn’t amount to much and he didn’t even budge the restraining hands. “Drift, it’s all right!” Perceptor shouted as running footsteps approached and why wasn’t his fellow Wrecker  _doing something_? Why wasn’t he helping Drift get away from whoever was trying to hold him down and–his mind shied away from even finishing the thought but Perceptor was still speaking right in his audial. “You’re all right now, you’re in the medbay. It’s over, do you understand? You’re safe! Stop fighting me or you’re going to hurt yourself–Drift, you have to calm down or you’ll hurt Ratchet!”

Drift froze.  _Hurt Ratchet?_  What the pit did Ratchet have to do with any of this? He didn’t care how slagging high he got, Drift would  _never_  hurt Ratchet.

… wait. Why was he even in a position where hurting Ratchet was even a possibility? The Autobot Chief Medical Officer traveled with Optimus Prime, not the Wreckers. Wherever Drift was, whatever he’d been doing, Ratchet shouldn’t be anywhere  _near_  him.

But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Ratchet  _had_  been with him, Drift was sure of it. He was forgetting something, that same  _something important_  he’d regretted leaving unfinished when he’d thought he was dead. Something had happened and Ratchet was involved in it, and judging by the instant dread that swamped Drift at the mere thought of whatever it was, it had been dangerous.

A bolt of pure terror pierced his spark as a possible explanation occurred to him.

If anything could make Drift so desperate to kill the pain that he would go back to drugs, it was Ratchet getting hurt. Ratchet getting hurt because of  _him_.

_Primus, oh Primus, what have I done?_

With an effort that felt like shifting a mountain instead of initiating a command code, Drift got his optics online.

The blurry form leaning over him resolved slowly into the shape of Perceptor. “Ah, there you are!” the scientist/sniper said, smiling down at him in what looked like genuine relief, but Drift couldn’t get any sense of his EM projections to be sure. “Good morning, Drift. Are you with us again?”

“Rrr,” Drift croaked, then winced as his vocalizer throbbed. It felt raw, like he’d never spoken before, and he didn’t care. He tried again, more urgently this time. “ _Rrr–”_

“No, no, don’t try to speak yet,” Perceptor interrupted. “Your new vocalizer is not yet fully integrated. If you’ll stay still, I can take your hands so you can speak to me chirolingually. Are you trying to ask about Ratchet?”

Drift didn’t care about his vocalizer or why it had needed to be replaced. He nodded as emphatically as he could. The few seconds it took Perceptor to release his shoulders and take his hands instead seemed like an eternity.  _[What did I do]_  he signed the instant Perceptor’s fingers were in position, hoping he was getting the movements right because his hands seemed light-years away from his arms.  _[Is he dying / is it my fault]_

“Is he–oh, Drift, no,” Perceptor said, optics widening in shock. “No, no, Ratchet’s not dying. Look, he’s right here.” And he reached for Drift’s head and gently turned it to the side.

Ratchet lay beside him, optics closed in either deep sleep or unconsciousness, Drift couldn’t tell which. But his biolights glowed faintly and that meant he was  _alive._  “See?” Perceptor said. “He’s not dying, Drift, I promise you that.”

Drift let out a silent sob of relief. Whatever had happened, whatever he’d done, at least he hadn’t… done  _that._  Perceptor’s hands left his helm and he distantly felt fingers weave between his again, but he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Another voice spoke before he could. “So, you finally decided to wake up. It’s about time,” it said, and another part of Drift’s foggy processor tagged it as  _safe_ before assigning it any other identifiers.

_Ambulon. Medic._

_Of course he’s safe if he’s a medic,_  Drift thought, but something deep in his coding denied that. Something told him that until very recently,  _safe_  had only applied to two people in the universe.

Ambulon, and Ratchet.

 _[What did I do]_  Drift signed to Perceptor again as Ambulon started running a series of checks on his systems that he completely ignored in favor of staring at Ratchet, because the longer he looked at the CMO’s face, the more he became aware that while Ratchet might be  _alive_ , that didn’t mean the same thing as  _all right_.

In fact, Ratchet looked  _not all right_  in a way that went far beyond mere unconsciousness. His paint was dull, with a definite grey tinge that made Drift's spark shiver with dread. 

He'd seen that grey tinge before, and it never meant anything good.

“Ah. Well, you see, that’s… it’s a long story, and it’s all a little complicated,” Perceptor hedged, and then his voice dropped to a whisper as he addressed Ambulon. “He wants to know what happened. I don’t think he remembers any of it.”

“Don’t worry about that right now, Drift. Confusion and disorientation are completely normal. The only thing you need to know is that it’s over. It’s over and you’re going to make a full recovery. All you need to do right now is stay calm and rest, and let the memories come back to you at their own pace,” Ambulon told him as gentle hands moved over his frame with brisk professionalism. “It’s best that way.”

Drift stared at Ratchet’s greyish, unconscious face and signed into Perceptor’s hands as hard as he could, the chirolingual version of a shout.  _[WHAT DID I DO TO HIM]_

“You and Ratchet weathered a crisis together and his condition is not your doing, any more than yours is his,” Perceptor replied gently. Drift was about to sign a protest because that answered nothing but before he could, Perceptor added in a much sharper tone, “We have to tell him something!” as though Ambulon had been about to protest. “I know Drift. That’s not enough for him. You don’t have to tell him everything, but he needs _something_.”

The medic sighed. “All right, fine. Drift, you and Ratchet have both had several major surgeries and you’ve been unconscious for the last six days. You’re not in the medbay proper, you’re in Ratchet’s quarters–you may not have known but there’s a connecting door. We’re keeping it open and having someone sit with you. Quieter that way, more privacy, less people in and out. All right? Everything is under control and you’re safe here. You’re going to be  _fine_  but I need you to stay calm and rest. Your field is helping to keep Ratchet’s steady,” he added when Drift started to sign more questions into Perceptor’s hands, as though the medic had been watching for Drift's fingers to move. “Ratchet’s had a harder time than you. We’re using you to stabilize him, Drift, and that’s the truth. If you really want to do something to help Ratchet, you need to calm down.”

Drift stared at Ratchet, his fingers trembling with all the questions he wanted to ask, but Ambulon’s last words silenced him. He didn’t understand any of this, had no clue how his field could be doing anything for Ratchet’s when Drift couldn’t feel  _anyone’s_  EM projections, but if there was the slightest chance that his turmoil could negatively impact the medic, he would do anything in his power to calm down. Still, he couldn’t help but ask Perceptor,  _[Is that true]_

 _[It is]_  his former teammate signed back.  _[Trust me Drift / you are helping him]_

Drift closed his optics and vented slowly and deeply, trying to bring his emotions back under control. He was still very frightened and extremely confused, but he trusted Perceptor in a way he trusted very few people. Even after he’d left the Wreckers behind, that hadn’t changed.

 _[No more drugs]_  Drift finally signed, because the fuzzy disorientation wasn’t helping him get hold of himself at all. Much as Drift wished otherwise, an alarmingly large part of him didn’t want to give up the blissful nothingness filling his frame and processor. There were many memories associated with the sensation for him and not all of them were bad ones. It would be so easy to fall back into that sweet, buoyant numbness and let it wipe all his cares away.  _[I can take the pain / tell them not to give me any more]_

Far better to deal with the post-surgery pain head-on than go back to that.

“He doesn’t want any more sedatives or painkillers,” Perceptor told Ambulon, sounding surprised.

“If you can keep your field nice and calm, we can discontinue those,” Ambulon said mildly, and of course he wasn't surprised, he had access to Drift's medical records. He finished his examination and patted Drift on the shoulder. “Try to rest, Drift. Someone will be right here when you wake up, and you should be able to start using your new vocalizer soon. Until then, we’ll try to make sure that whoever sits with you can speak hand too.”

“I’ll stay with you, Drift,” Perceptor interrupted. “When you wake up, you won’t have to wonder who’s here or if they’re chirolingual. It’ll be me. Now, try to get some recharge. It’ll do you both good.”

And as though the words were an order, Drift’s brief window of consciousness closed again.

.

Drift couldn’t feel his frame again, but this time it was because he was dreaming.

Knowing that was comforting. Having a reason for the weightless, timeless blur he’d become was comforting. He could relax into it this time. This was just a dream, and dreams were safe.

_Safe._

It was a nice word,  _safe._  Nice to hear, short and soft on the audials. Nice to feel when someone signed it into his hand, too. Someone had been signing it to him just a little while ago, actually, signing it over and over. Drift remembered that. He’d been frightened, but someone he trusted kept reminding him that he was safe, and he knew that person didn’t lie.

Perceptor had been here, and he could speak hand too. Maybe it was Perceptor telling him he was safe?

No… no, the fingers between his were thicker than the scientist’s. Felt nice. Dreams were strange things, because even though Drift couldn’t feel his own frame, he still vividly felt the ghostly caress of strong fingers repeating  _[safe]_  into his hand again and again.

_[I will kill anyone who tries to hurt you]_

That… he frowned. That wasn’t  _[safe]_  but somehow it meant the same thing.

And it made no sense. Since when did Drift have anyone willing to fight his battles for him? Since when did he  _need_  anyone to fight for him? The only reason he’d lasted this long was because he had damn well learned how to keep  _himself_  safe. If anyone tried to hurt him, Drift didn’t need some mysterious protector to kill them. He was perfectly capable of doing it himself.

Only he couldn’t have done it himself. Abruptly he remembered that feeling of desperate helplessness with horrifying clarity. He couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t fight. He couldn’t even walk, which was why someone had been carrying him. Someone he didn’t trust was carrying him and he’d been terrified, and the only thing that kept him from sinking his sharpened denta into the vulnerable energon lines of their throat was that strong hand signing to him.

_[I will kill anyone who tries to hurt you]_

And he’d believed that person, because that person… that person was…

_Ratchet._

As though that realization was the final crack in a dam, memories flooded Drift’s processor.

 _Ratchet sitting mute and passive on a crate as mecha fought over him, fought for the right to frag him like he was nothing more than a valve to take their spike, like his dedication and brilliance and passion and skill and persistence and every wonderful, infuriating, perfect thing that made him_ Ratchet _mattered for nothing, and_ no I won’t let this happen to him

 _Ratchet following him to his hab suite and Drift hadn’t been able to stop trembling because he’d done it, he’d won Ratchet’s fight and given him the choice and_ Ratchet had chosen him _, and now here he was, willing and eager and Drift was being given everything he’d ever wanted on a silver platter and elation and terror warred within him until all he could do was surrender to the need to kiss him, touch him, please him, show him everything Drift could never ever say to him and he held Ratchet close and steered him toward his berth and all the while promises fell from his lips,_ you won’t regret this, I’ll make this so good for you, I swear I’ll make you glad you chose me… gonna take care of you, give you everything you need, anything you want

 _Ratchet in his berth, in his arms, and it was everything Drift had ever dreamed of and more and he knew it was the heat coding making him react this way, of course Drift knew that, but he could still have the fantasy, and then Ratchet would cry out his name every single time he overloaded and every single time it astonished Drift because_ he’s not imagining someone else, he’s here with me

 _Kisses, endless, perfect kisses, trying to claim a lifetime's worth of kisses because he knew he'd never get another chance like this, and Ratchet holding him tight and whispering_ don't stop, please don't stop  _and Drift could hardly believe this wasn't a dream_

 _Ratchet when his heat was over, limp and exhausted and so helpless, and the imprinting had nothing to do with the surge of protectiveness and tenderness that swamped Drift at the sight of the medic cradled in his arms or the determination to make the most of every possible second, to care for him, pamper him, spoil him, hold onto him for as long as possible, and begging First Aid not to take him to the medbay for stupor care,_ “No, please, I want to do it, please let me take care of him, I swear I’ll do everything right, just give me a chance and I’ll show you–”

_Ratchet cradled in softness, his field blissful and relaxed in deepest recharge, and Drift’s hands ached from hours of massaging his unconscious frame but he didn’t care, he would’ve continued even longer if his own frame wasn’t betraying him, kissing Ratchet’s precious hands one by one and whispering the words he would never dare to say to him while he was awake, kissing him goodbye and being so careful not to let his tears touch the medic’s fingers because he was about to abandon him and he hated himself for it, hated his coding, hated his frame, hated his instincts, hated everything that was tearing him away from this_

_Ratchet finding him hours later in the washracks and Drift’s frame burning_  oh Primus I’m burning alive I’m dying  _but even worse than the pain was the shame of being found like this, hiding and scared and crying at the prospect of facing exactly what the medic had just faced himself and Drift wished he had already died because how could Ratchet ever want him after seeing him for the coward he was, and no matter what he said Ratchet still wouldn’t_ leave

 _Ratchet shouting at him when Drift’s overstressed systems first rebelled and then collapsed, his HUD flashing CATASTROPHIC FAILURE WARNING and his vision offlined and his hearing offlined and his pain sensors did_ not _offline and he thought_ at least I get to die beside him _but he hadn’t died, he’d come back to himself in Ratchet’s lap_

_Ratchet’s arms around him_

_Ratchet’s field embracing him_

_Ratchet’s voice in his audials alternating between threats and begging as he dragged Drift back from the brink of death by sheer force of will, powerful in a way Drift had never seen from any other mech_

_Ratchet’s voice, oh, Ratchet’s wonderful voice saying so many impossible things, praising him for being strong, being brave, saying he was amazing and beautiful and perfect and never once telling him_ it’s ridiculous for  _you_  to be like this about ‘facing _or_ other mecha go through this all the time _or_ get over it, stop being such a weakling _and Drift had no idea what to say or do because it was so unreal, Ratchet never spoke to him like this outside of his dreams_

 _Ratchet looking him straight in the optics and saying_ Remember I don’t say things I don’t mean, _especially_ now

 _Ratchet’s voice murmuring_ just like that, oh yes, just like that, let go for me, sweetspark, let it come, you overload for both of us  _and Drift had overloaded so hard with that deep voice ringing in his audials, praising him for it as though his pleasure was a gift that Ratchet was glad to receive_

_Ratchet looking into his optics again but now one was dark, the thin metalmesh surrounding it scorched from the force with which it had burned out and it was Drift’s pleasure that had done it to him and that was no gift_

_Ratchet’s beloved face so weary, so_ worried _, and still he smiled and tried to hide the strain as he held Drift close and comforted him when he’d awakened with his coding once more riding him hard but had shaken his head_ no _when Ratchet bled his charge off through those cables again, seeing the pained wince the medic tried to hide from him and wanting to protest_ no don’t please don’t let me keep hurting you please _but he had no voice and Ratchet’s hands were busy giving him more pleasure than he could stand_

 _Ratchet muttering to himself as he did something inside his own chest when he thought Drift was in recharge after still more amazing overloads, pulling out a handful of scorched wiring and flinching, and Drift’s horror when he realized he was watching Ratchet_ doing surgery onhimself _, watching him replacing what Drift’s charge had burned out and Drift couldn’t stop him without being able to move, couldn’t get his attention without a voice to scream_ please stop I’m not worth this

 _Ratchet’s EM field vanishing, that warm, beautiful, protective,_ safe _field wiped out in a shower of sparks from behind his chestplate as he held Drift and kissed him and took him apart again and again with those talented medic’s fingers, as many times as the coding revved him up Ratchet had been there to bring him back down, and Drift had finally gotten him to take his hand again so he could sign_ please stop hurting yourself please  _and Ratchet had just smiled and kissed him again and said_ don’t worry about me, sweetspark, I’m fine _and he wasn’t fine, he wasn’t within shouting distance of fine_

 _Ratchet’s biolights blowing out and Drift’s following in a stinging wave of_ pop pop pop  _all down his frame from a new backlash of charge that was too much for either of them to handle and Ratchet groaning_ well there went my comms _before hurrying to reassure Drift that he didn’t need his comms right now, Ambulon would be coming any time now to bring the rest of the nanites, it was all right, don’t worry, when the only thing Drift was worrying about was_ him

_Ratchet leaving him for the first time in hours and Drift hated himself for how terrified he was to hear him go, and he was down to hearing and touch as his only senses now and that just made it worse, his systems were shutting down one by one and the only thing keeping the fear of death away was Ratchet’s embrace and now that was gone too_

_Ratchet fumbling with something beside him as something banged against the door and then that false spike was back and Drift sobbed with pleasure and longing and terror because that meant Ratchet was going to bleed off his charge again and every time he did, the relief was shorter and the cost the medic paid was higher and Drift still couldn’t bring himself to turn away when Ratchet kissed him, couldn’t make himself give up even one single kiss, he didn’t know why Ratchet kept saying he was strong because he was weak, so weak_

_Ratchet bringing him to overload almost immediately and the unexpected rush of charge inside his valve almost instantly afterward, a rush of charge and a rush of hot fluids and his chamber spiraled open and drew it in, sending him into overload after overload and Ratchet channeled them all back into him as the spike kept on jetting inside him and his chamber drank it down greedily and his coding demanded more, kept throwing Drift into overload after overload and every time the cycle repeated it felt better and worse and Ratchet was caught in the circle of increasingly powerful electrical discharges too and he cried out but that wasn’t pleasure, it was pain, and the coding didn’t care if it burned Ratchet to a crisp, all it cared about was getting those nanites and it finally_ was _getting them and it wasn’t about to stop_

 _Ratchet’s voice in his audial one more time, hoarse and pained now,_ you’re almost there, love, almost there, just a little more, you can do it, you can, I know you can

 _Ratchet groaning as the spike sent charge through Drift's valve again and jetted one last time and Drift’s chamber shivered with pleasure as it hit capacity, giving Drift one final overload like a reward but something went_ fzzt **crack** _loudly above him and Ratchet collapsed against him like a puppet whose strings had been slashed_

_Ratchet lying still half-atop him_

_Ratchet unmoving_

_Ratchet silent_

**_"Ratchet!"_ **

Drift came out of the dream gasping and shaking with the memory of the stupor dragging him down into unconsciousness despite his silent screams because he was certain the only mech he’d ever loved lay dead beside him and it was  _all his fault_.

Perceptor was right there, grasping his hands in a tight chirolingual hold. “Easy, Drift, easy, you were dreaming. It’s all right now,” he said soothingly, but Drift couldn’t be soothed because that hadn’t been a dream and nothing was all right.

 _[I almost killed him]_  he signed as silent tears rolled down his face, and even seeing the improved color in Ratchet’s still, haggard face right beside him as soon as he onlined his optics didn’t help.  _[I almost killed him]_

“But you didn’t,” Perceptor replied, squeezing his hands gently as his field responded to Drift's grief with a wave of comfort and understanding, and some time must've passed since his last awakening because he could feel EM fields again. Ratchet's was barely discernable but it was _there_ and Drift clung to that. “He’s right beside you, Drift. He isn’t dead and he’s not going to die, they’re certain of that now. You’re both going to recover. You’re  _helping_  him recover.”

 _[How]_  Drift signed, because Ambulon had said that, too, but all his memories were of  _hurting_  Ratchet.

“Ratchet’s systems were damaged by the same kind of electrical cascade that you experienced. The damage was extreme. They weren’t certain he was going to pull through, but do you know why he did? Because of  _you,_  Drift,” Perceptor said, and Drift was glad that the scientist had stayed because he was certain Ambulon wouldn’t have given him such a blunt answer. Drift looked over at Perceptor and the other ex-Wrecker nodded as though reading the question in his optics. “When his systems failures meant he could no longer regulate his vital processes, somehow  _yours_  took over via those diagnostic cables. They found that every time they tried to unplug the cables to perform surgery, his condition worsened, but when they let you stay connected to him, he stabilized enough to withstand the procedures. Even after they finally disconnected you, they’ve kept you right beside him every minute. We theorize that it was somehow a side effect of the double-imprinting. His systems were reading yours and using them as a template to reset themselves accordingly–rather like a living spark-support system. It’s actually been fascinating to study the effect, but the point is this, Drift,” he said, leaning closer, “ _you saved his life._ ”

Drift remembered fighting to resist the black pull of his stupor, reaching for Ratchet with everything he had and trying with all his strength to hold on as unconsciousness pulled him down anyway.  _[Is that why we’re in the same berth]_  Drift asked, astonished.  _[Am I really helping him that much]_

Perceptor smiled again. “Yes. Your proximity does seem to help his vitals. Honestly, you are both stable enough that we could probably move you to separate berths now, but no one wants to take a chance. You’re both recovering well like this. Do you want to move?” Drift was shaking his head  _no_  before he even finished the question and Perceptor’s optics were much too knowing but he didn’t care. “First Aid will be glad to hear it. He seems rather adamant about keeping you together.”

Drift didn’t know how to respond to that. He remembered First Aid praising him for how well he’d cared for Ratchet during his stupor, and the unsubtle hints the medic had dropped that he hoped Ratchet appreciated him properly for it later.

But that brought the guilt back, and despite what Perceptor had just told him, Drift couldn’t imagine this guilt would go away anytime soon. Even if he’d somehow kept Ratchet alive until the other medics could stabilize him, he would never have been in that condition at all if Drift had just done what any other mech would’ve and sent Ratchet to the medbay for stupor care instead of trying to do it himself. His selfish desire to hold onto Ratchet for as long as possible had caused all of this. At the very least, when he’d felt his own heat coming on, he should’ve had First Aid take Ratchet away, but he hadn’t. He’d hoped somehow that Ratchet would be glad to wake up in his rooms, that he’d realize Drift had wanted him for more than just the opportunity to frag him through his heat. He’d wanted…

… it didn’t matter what he’d wanted. He’d been selfish, and that selfishness had ended with Ratchet lying here, fighting for his very life.

Drift closed his optics again.  _[Thank you for staying]_  he signed to Perceptor, because he owed the other mech that much, but he didn’t want to talk anymore. “I can speak now,” he said, relieved when his vocalizer worked this time even if it did sound like it was full of gravel from screaming himself awake.  _[I’m going to try to recharge some more / you don’t have to stay]_

It was a lie, but Perceptor didn’t call him on it. The scientist squeezed his hands again and stood. “Good. Get some rest. It’s the best thing for both of you.”

But Drift didn’t. He stayed awake for a long time, just looking at Ratchet. He managed to move enough to lean his forehelm against the medic’s chevron. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, knowing Ratchet couldn’t hear him but needing to say it anyway. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never hurt you again, I swear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the lyrics... http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/shinedown/ifyouonlyknew.html


	15. Whispers In the Dark

Two weeks, one day, and four hours.

That was how long it had been since Ratchet had finally awakened and been put on strict berthrest.

Rodimus knew it down to the hour off the top of his head, and if he were so inclined, he could tag it down to the minute just by the time/date stamps on the string of increasingly irate messages in his inbox. He didn’t narrow it down to the minute, though. Not his style. Ultra Magnus was the one who got off on that sort of thing–

–and that thought triggered a whole new memory cache, one that could be summed up as  _things Ultra Magnus gets off on._  The three and a half days of Rodimus’ heat cycle had shown him that the list of things that spun the Duly Appointed Enforcer’s rather impressive crankshaft was both significantly longer and  _infinitely_  less boring than Rodimus had ever imagined, and he was positive the list wasn’t even close to complete.

The captain tapped his fingertips against his heavily-graffiti’d desk and hummed thoughtfully. Ultra Magnus liked lists, and hated unfinished projects.

There might be the beginnings of a good idea in that.

_Processor out of the berthroom, Roddy. Act like a captain._

Rodimus sighed and banged his helm on his desk a few times in a vain attempt to clear it.  _Act like a captain,_  ha. So much easier said than done, especially right now. He and Magnus were trying to prove that just because two mechs had spent a heat cycle together, it didn’t mean that they couldn’t behave professionally afterward. They could put it behind them. They could be mature about what was really nothing more than an instinctive reaction to a simple piece of standard programming. Rodimus was determined to show the crew that he could work with Ultra Magnus normally instead of thinking about three days of molten-hot ‘facing every time he looked at his SIC’s big frame.

He could demonstrate that he didn’t have to remember being bent over his berth and effortlessly pinned there whenever Magnus gestured with those strong hands.

He made sure to show that he wasn’t having trouble repressing shudders every time Magnus gave an order, absolutely wasn’t remembering that same deep,  _deep_  voice in his audial saying _do you want more, Captain? You'll have to ask me nicely…_

And Rodimus certainly hadn’t been losing track of time remembering exactly how it felt to be impaled on that gorgeous, gigantic spike and fragged until he lost his voice from screaming and oh Primus _he could not stop thinking about it._  Ultra Magnus had dominated Rodimus’ heat fight and then he’d dominated Rodimus himself and he’d loved every second of it.

He banged his head again and forced the memories of his SIC away.  _Act like a captain,_  he growled at himself again.  _Set an example–a_ good _example for once in your functioning._

Primus knew the  _Lost Light_  needed some leadership after the heat fiasco had torn through the ship. A large percentage of the crew were steadfastly avoiding meeting anyone else’s optics, no one knew whose berthroom anyone else would be occupying at any given moment, First Aid was screaming for a resupply stop after treating so many injuries, and Ultra Magnus had shorted out three datapads issuing citations for public indecency. Rodimus made him stop unless it had actually gotten to the point where panels were popped in public areas or it looked like another courtship fight was imminent, but even though there hadn’t been a new fight in almost a week, Red Alert still refused to leave his office for  _anything_. “Just in case,” he’d said, triple-checking the extra filters over his air vents, and for once, his precautions didn’t seem even the slightest bit paranoid.

Rung had once told Rodimus that a ship takes on the character of its captain, and he wasn’t sure if he was alarmed or flattered that Swerve had started referring to the  _Lost Light_  as the _Love Boat_  and playing marathons of the Earth series nonstop in his bar.

And while Rodimus couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t heard the jokes about his stamina after the extended time it had taken to sate his own heat coding, he was really  _much_  more impressed with how Magnus had effortlessly kept pace with him the entire time and had then  _gone on to guard Drift and Ratchet_  immediately afterward.

_Drift and Ratchet…_

Rodimus frowned as that derailed his musings. It was hard to enjoy the memories of spending his heat with his long-time crush when he was so far beyond worried about what had happened to between his best friend and the mech he’d professed to adore.

And he had not the slightest idea what it could have been. Drift, who had never yet hesitated to tell his best friend even the most embarrassing and personal stories before, wouldn’t say anything to him about what had happened after he’d left the hangar with Ratchet.

Not one single word.

It was so opposite from what Rodimus expected that he didn’t know what to think, but then again, Drift hadn’t reacted the way Rodimus had expected from the instant he'd won Ratchet's heat-fight. Rodimus had been looking for Drift to show up from the minute he’d caught Ratchet’s scent and followed the medic out of Swerve’s, and he hadn’t been the slightest bit surprised to see the other speedster crash into the courtship fight like a mech possessed. His determination to win at all costs wasn’t at all surprising either–Rodimus might’ve been drunk the night he’d finally gotten Drift to admit that he was in love with the old medic, but he would never forget the look in his friend’s optics when he’d said it. That look had taken the confession out of  _tease mercilessly forever_ territory and put the information firmly in the  _never, ever, ever bring this up again_  zone.

Rodimus hadn’t been surprised that Drift had won, but he had been  _very_  surprised with what Drift had done with that victory. He’d been stunned all over again at the disbelief on the swordsmech’s face when Ratchet had taken that choice and chosen him, because how did Drift not  _know_  he was hot as the surface of the sun? And even aching and bleeding and missing fingers, Rodimus had grinned hugely when the pair left the hangar together.

A week later, Rodimus had been drifting in and out of his own stupor in the medbay when Ultra Magnus had charged into the medbay with his arms full of a blanket-draped mass that was very clearly the entangled frames of Drift and Ratchet. He had carried them straight into the operating room with Ambulon, First Aid, and Lancet all hot on his heels. Rodimus hadn’t been able to hold onto consciousness very long, but he’d seen enough in the war to know that the looks on the medics’ faces indicated nothing good.

When Rodimus’ stupor ebbed enough for him to start asking questions, all First Aid would tell him about the pair was “they’ll both live” and nothing more. By the time Rodimus was able to leave the medbay, neither one of them had awakened, and Rodimus hadn’t even been allowed to visit his friend and sit at his berthside. They weren’t even being treated in the medbay itself. He couldn’t so much as catch a glimpse.

The secrecy continued after Drift finally awakened. Rodimus still wasn’t allowed to see him until he was moved to a berth in the actual medbay, but Drift had merely rolled over and showed him his back when Rodimus had asked what had happened. Nothing had changed after he was discharged and Drift had gone straight to his office instead of back to his hab suite. Rodimus had wanted him to take some time off but the ship was in such an uproar with all the heats that he probably hadn’t pushed as hard as he should have. He and Magnus needed the help, and Drift seemed very eager to lose himself in the business of running the ship.

And Rodimus would be lying if he said that he wasn’t hoping a return to normalcy would bring Drift back to the mech he knew.

At least the string of heats seemed to be over, even though Ratchet remained in the medbay. The CMO’s recovery was going much slower than any of the other twenty-seven mecha who’d gone into heat–and again, no one would tell Rodimus why. It was pretty impressive for the old mech, though, Rodimus had to give him that. Ratchet had managed to start a chain reaction that ended with  _twenty-fragging-seven_  mecha being triggered, and he couldn’t even be angry at Ratchet for what he’d unleashed on the ship. He was clearly paying the heaviest price of anyone for it.

And that brought Rodimus right back to where he’d started.

What the  _pit_  had happened between Drift and Ratchet during Ratchet’s heat? How the frag had it gone so  _wrong?_

His datapad buzzed in his hand again and he grabbed it, glad of a distraction from his worry. He looked down and groaned, wishing he could really say he was surprised to see yet another message from the medbay. This time the message was from Lancet.

_Call me immediately._

Rodimus sighed heavily. Primus, he wanted to foist this off on one of the other officers, but damn it, he truly was trying to be a proper captain right now _._

Besides, he’d already sent Ultra Magnus down to the medbay once. That… hadn’t gone well, to say the least.

And sending Drift in again would just be cruel.

No, Rodimus had to deal with this. Be a captain. Take command.  _Handle it_.

He braced himself and opened a comm line to the medbay. “Sedate him,” he said before Lancet could say a word.

“I don’t want to die,” Lancet replied and he didn’t sound like he was even slightly kidding. “Rodimus, can’t you–”

“You don’t want an injection of poison. I don’t want a sword in my neck,” Rodimus said, already seeing where that question was heading. “I ordered him to go down there once because there was a real medical reason for it. And no,” he added as Lancet drew breath to speak, “Ratchet driving you crazy is not a real medical reason. I’m not doing that again. My order stands.”

The order in question was a simple one.  _Leave Drift alone._

It was one even Rodimus was trying to follow.

Lancet sighed but didn’t pursue it. The next voice Rodimus heard was First Aid’s. “Permission to jettison the Chief Medical Officer into the nearest asteroid belt, Captain?”

Rodimus heard the real question in there and responded to that instead.  _You should see me, Mags, you’d be proud,_  he thought dryly as he invited the medics to vent. “What’s he doing now?”

“Well, we’d love to answer that question, but there’s just one little problem,” First Aid replied. “We can’t find him.”

.

Red Alert hadn’t wanted to let Rodimus and First Aid into his office, and only Rodimus threatening to call Brainstorm in to hack his door codes got the paranoid security chief to do it. Even then, he insisted on wearing a containment suit until the doors were once more triple-locked behind them and the air filters had cycled any potential heat-inducing pheromones from the air. “Why don’t you just take a suppressant?” Rodimus asked, exasperated because they didn’t have  _time_  for this right now.

“Do you have any idea what those are  _made_  of?” Red replied, optics wide, and Rodimus was already regretting the question even before First Aid started to sputter in outrage at the implication that he would ever give anyone a treatment that was less than safe.

“Nope, don’t care either. Now get on the cameras and find Ratchet,” Rodimus interrupted before Red and First Aid could get into it. “How long has he been gone, Aid?”

“No idea,” the acting CMO admitted, wringing his hands. “The last time we checked on him, he was in recharge, so we… we left him alone because we didn’t want to wake him.” Rodimus and Red both stared at him and the medic hung his head. “All right, we’re all avoiding him, okay? You would be too if you had to put up with a bedridden Ratchet for two fragging weeks! He’s enough of a terror when he’s in a  _good_  mood, and–”

“All right, all right,” Rodimus said, holding up a hand and rubbing his forehelm with the other. He knew very well that Ratchet had not been in a good mood at all lately. Not all the complaints coming out of the medbay had been from the staff. “Red, where’s Ratchet right now?”

Red Alert typed rapidly, then frowned. “His ID transponder isn’t responding,” he said slowly. He tried again and got the same error message. “It’s not just not responding, it’s reading as  _offline_ –are you sure he was  _sleeping_  the last time you checked?”

First Aid’s visor went very bright with something near panic. “He was  _fine!_  His systems have been stable for quite a while now. He wouldn’t have just–he wasn’t anywhere near that sick!”

Rodimus waved his hand again. “I’m sure he isn’t dead,” he said, even though his own spark had given a sickening lurch when he’d seen that  _offline_  message too. “He got up and walked away, for Primus’ sake, and it’s fragging  _Ratchet._  I’m sure he knows how to turn off an ID beacon.” He rubbed his face and looked over the huge wall of monitors, more than a hundred screens divided into twenty neat boxes each, and every one of those boxes flicked rapidly through various scenes from all the cameras around the ship. They would  _never_  find him by looking at those.

And really, after what had happened when Ratchet had first awakened, was there any doubt where he would sneak away to go?

“Red,” Rodimus said, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his spark, “find Drift.”

First Aid had been there when Ratchet had awakened too and he shot Rodimus an alarmed look that the captain ignored. Red pulled up Drift’s ID beacon with a few keystrokes. “In his office,” he said, and brought up a view from one of the cameras in the corridors outside. “–oh, you were right.”

The main vidscreen was suddenly full of the image of Ratchet standing outside Drift’s door.

First Aid shuddered with relief. “I’ll have Lancet take a wheelchair and go get him,” he said, starting to turn around.

Rodimus stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Not yet,” he said, because Ratchet was still just standing there, staring at the door, his hands opening and closing, opening and closing. Rodimus wondered how long he’d been there, but he looked nervous, and Ratchet didn’t  _do_  nervous. It made him instantly hopeful that Ratchet might be planning to see Drift for something other than a confrontation, and he wasn’t about to interrupt that. “Wait a minute.”

“Captain, he shouldn’t even be up!” First Aid protested, but Rodimus waved him into silence.

“And yet he is, and he looks pretty okay to me,” he said, and apart from his hands, it was true. Ratchet stood perfectly steady on his pedes. “Just… he left the medbay for a reason, Aid. Let him have his moment.”  _Please be the reason I think it is,_  he thought fervently.

First Aid started to speak again but on the screen, Ratchet abruptly squared his shoulders and hit the entry-request button on the touchpad. Rodimus let go of First Aid and grabbed Red Alert’s shoulder instead. “You have cameras in Drift’s office, right? And microphones?”

Red gave him an almost scandalized look. “You said you didn’t want that kind of thing in hab suites or private offices, Rodimus. You said it was–”

“Yeah, and I also know you, Red, so  _do you have cameras and mics in there or not?_ ” Rodimus demanded as the door slid open. Red looked away and that was all the confirmation Rodimus needed. “Pull them up, all of them!”

“Rodimus–” Red began.

“First Aid needs to monitor Ratchet’s condition,” Rodimus said, thinking fast to come up with any reason beyond  _I fragging_ need _to see this._  “To make sure Ratchet’s health is protected. It’s a legitimate reason and it’s an order and I would assume that you don’t want me to tell Ultra Magnus about all the files you’ve downloaded from Prowl’s private servers over the interstellar wifi and–oh look, we seem to have visual and audio now, thank you, Red.”

The scene on the vidscreen had switched from the hall view to a split-screen of Drift’s office. The swordsmech hadn’t looked up from the datapad in his hands when the door opened and Rodimus wondered if he’d even checked to see who was requesting entrance before opening it.

“Yes, what is it?” Drift said distractedly as Ratchet came inside. The medic took a few steps before stopping and just staring wordlessly at Drift. Ratchet was silent for so long that if it hadn’t been for the quiet  _shht_  of the door sliding closed behind him, Rodimus might’ve thought the audio was offline.

Drift finally seemed to realize that his visitor wasn’t going to speak because he rubbed a hand over his optics. “I’m really busy, so if you could–” he began, but his voice died the instant he dropped his hand and saw who was there.

And Rodimus, who trained with Drift, recognized the shift in his body language immediately. That was a  _fight-or-flight_ battle-reflex if he’d ever seen it, and Rodimus wanted to reach through the screen and shake him. “No no no, Drift, don’t run him off!” he whispered, unaware he was speaking aloud until First Aid shushed him.

“I can see that,” Ratchet said as Drift gripped the datapad hard and stared down at it like the secrets of Primus were written on it. The medic took a single step nearer and gestured at the stacks of datapads covering the swordsmech’s desk. “Looks important,” he said, and Drift gave a noncommittal grunt. The medic looked over at the neatly-made cot in the corner and nodded, and Rodimus mentally kicked himself for not realizing that his best friend was _sleeping in his damn office_. He'd known Drift was bad, but not _that_ bad.

Ratchet looked away from the cot and back at Drift. “Rodimus has you working ‘round the clock already, huh. Couldn’t get a moment free, I bet.”

“Ow,” Red yelped, knocking Rodimus’ hand off his shoulder where he’d abruptly squeezed too hard, but Rodimus wasn’t listening.

“Don’t you blame me for not visiting him, don’t you dare,” the captain hissed at the screen, but all Drift did was make another of those vague sounds that could be interpreted to mean anything. Ratchet nodded again as though it meant something to him, though, and moved a little closer to the desk.

Red’s microphones were very good. They all heard the creak of the datapad in Drift’s hands as his grip tightened still further. “Did you… did you need something?” Drift finally said in a strangled voice that didn’t sound much like his own despite the effort he was clearly putting into making the words come out casually.

Ratchet’s hands were in motion again now–open and close, open and close. The cameras were every bit as high quality as the microphones, letting them see the emotions chase across his face–surprise, confusion, hurt. Finally his jaw tightened. “Yeah, I did,” he said, propping his hands on his hips now and giving Drift the look that any mech on the  _Lost Light_  would know to run from. The Hatchet was getting pissed off. “I wanted to ask you a question, but maybe I should wait until I can have your attention.”

**_crack_ **

The datapad in Drift’s hands snapped in two. As though the sound marked the end of his own patience, the swordsmech surged to his feet and came around the desk in three strides, still not getting within reach but no longer pretending indifference. “You  _have_  my attention, Ratchet,” he snarled, low and almost furious. “Every minute of every day, you have my  _full_  attention. Don’t pretend you don’t know that now. Why are you here?”

The last words didn’t come out angry, though. They came out pained, as though they cut him to say, and Ratchet’s tense body language eased just the smallest fraction at this evidence that Drift wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to appear.

And it seemed to be what the medic had been waiting for, because he took another step closer, within touching distance now, and spoke very softly. “Because I want to court you, Drift. Properly.”

Rodimus’ jaw dropped, and although First Aid’s face was completely hidden behind that visor and mask, he was certain the acting CMO’s did, too. Red Alert, however, was reaching for the control panel again. “This isn’t right. We shouldn’t be watching this.”

Rodimus grabbed one hand and Aid got the other. “You turn that off and I’ll have Rewind delete your stash of porn,” Rodimus threatened, throwing out the first thing he thought of.

And apparently it was a direct hit because Red froze and stared up at him. “You wouldn’t,” he said weakly, but Rodimus was no longer listening to him. His attention was fixed on the screen.

Drift was… laughing?

It was hard to tell for sure because his face was buried in his hands, but the muffled sounds coming from the swordsmech sounded like laughter.

Right up until they started to sound a lot more like tears.

“No,” Drift whispered, and even Red gasped at that.

“What?” Ratchet said at the same time as Rodimus and Aid yelled it at the screen.

“No, Ratchet,” Drift said, and any illusion of calm was shattered now. His voice was absolutely wrecked. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“That little–I’m going down there,” Rodimus growled, and Red and Aid both grabbed hold of him. “Are you fragging  _kidding_  me? Let me go! He’s being an idiot!”

“Yeah, and you charging in there and telling them you were spying is going to make it all  _so much better,_ ” Red Alert snapped. “You’re making me do this, the least you could do is make sure the ex-Decepticon assassin doesn’t  _find out_  about it!”

Ratchet was looking at Drift now, watching him with his mouth tight and eyes narrowed. It was an assessing look, and finally he nodded as though he’d just come to a diagnosis. “All right,” he said. “Let me ask you something else, then. Do I strike you as an indecisive person, Drift?”

That was unexpected enough to get Drift to look at him again, and he pulled his hands away to reveal confusion on his face. “Um. What?” he said cautiously, obviously wondering where this was going but knowing Ratchet well enough to be suspicious.

“Indecisive,” Ratchet repeated, planting his hands on his hips again. “Do I seem to be a mech who has a hard time making up my own mind? Weak, easily taken advantage of? Tell me, Drift, do you think I frequently do things I don’t want to do?”

First Aid was snickering and even Red was smiling. “Oh, he’s good,” Aid said.

Drift clearly saw the trap now. “Ratchet–” he began, but the medic was having none of it.

“No, no, maybe that’s not it,” Ratchet said, tapping his chin now as though Drift hadn’t spoken at all. “Maybe it’s that memory loss thing and I’m just not remembering properly. You do outrank me, after all, as you so very helpfully pointed out in the washracks. I’m sure everyone knows how eager I am to blindly follow orders. Maybe you ordered me to–”

“Ratchet,  _I almost_   _killed you!”_  Drift shouted, cutting him off. “I almost killed you and you’re treating it like some kind of joke!”

Ratchet closed the distance between them so abruptly that Drift stepped back, his hips hitting the desk hard enough that a stack of datapads slid and fell to the floor. Both of them ignored it. “And  _I missed the part where anything I did was your fragging idea,_ ” Ratchet growled back, so close that Drift had to lean back to avoid touching him. “Has it occurred to you that I’ve watched you almost die  _twice?_  Did it cross your mind that maybe I couldn’t stand to watch it a third time? Have you even considered that everything I did was  _my own choice?_ ”

The look on Drift’s face said the answer to all those questions was  _no_. His optics were enormous as he finally held Ratchet’s gaze, and although his mouth worked, no sound came out.

“You went down onto Messatine for me,” Ratchet said through clenched denta. “You went down to the DJD’s fragging   _homeworld_  and you almost died there, and I’m not going to pretend not to know why you did it. You put yourself between me and the plague victims. You dragged yourself off your damn deathbed to save my aft from Pharma. And Drift, that's just _one_ time out of I don't even know how many! You have risked your life for me over and over and have you once thought that maybe I decided it was  _my fragging turn_ this time?”

Rodimus had no idea what they were taking about now but a glance at First Aid told him that asking would be fruitless, and anyway, he didn't want to miss an instant of this. Drift stared at Ratchet, no closer to a response than he’d been before.

Ratchet let the silence linger for a long moment before he finally spoke again. “One more question for you, Drift,” he said, his voice very soft now in the hush after his angry words. “One more and then I’ll leave if you want me to. You kept me with you after my heat was over, kept me and took care of me when there was nothing in it for you, and I remember… you massaged all my aches away... you did that for a long time, and then you took my hands, like this…”  Drift looked stunned as Ratchet reached down and caught Drift’s hands in his, raised them up. “And you lifted them one at a time, and you kissed them, like this,” he went on, his voice very nearly a purr as he brought one trembling black hand to his cheek and pressed a soft kiss into it, then did the same to the other. Drift stared at him, optics huge, and Ratchet murmured, “And then you said–”

“Don’t,” Drift whispered brokenly as Ratchet’s lips caressed his hands.

“Was that a lie, Drift?” Ratchet asked, still holding the swordsmech’s hands to his face. “You don’t have to answer any of my other questions, but please, this one I need to know. Was all of that a lie?”

Rodimus knew a moment of real fear for his friend then, because Drift was just about the most stupidly self-sacrificing mech he had ever known and that  _included_  Optimus Prime, but Drift closed his optics and said, “It wasn’t, you know it wasn’t,” in a trembling whisper.

“Wait, what did Drift say to him? What wasn’t a lie?” Red Alert demanded, then cringed when Rodimus and First Aid both yelled at him for interrupting, but that meant they didn’t hear what Ratchet said next. Rodimus shushed them both just in time to hear the speedster speak again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Drift said, and Ratchet smiled.

“So don’t hurt me,” he replied like it was just that simple.

And kissed him.

Drift resisted for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he made a breathless, needy sound and wrapped his arms around Ratchet, kissing him back with tears on his faceplate.

“ _Finally,_ ” Rodimus crowed, pumping his fists skyward in triumph. “Finally, finally,  _finally!_ ”

First Aid seemed almost as happy as his captain. “Primus, I hope this means he’ll start being a better patient now that this is sorted out,” he groaned, dropping into a chair. “I don’t think we could take much more of him the way he’s been.”

Red Alert reset his vocalizer. “All right, you know I haven’t been fully on-board with spying on this, but I think right now maybe you should pay attention again, First Aid,” he said, interrupting the celebration going on behind him, and the other two looked up at the screen again.

Ratchet was still standing, but he was now leaning heavily on Drift with his head on his shoulder. “–sure you’re supposed to be moving around? How long ago did they discharge you?” Drift was asking, frowning worriedly as he tried to steer the stumbling medic toward his desk chair.

“Yeah, well, funny story, they kind of didn’t,” Ratchet admitted, falling into the chair with a groan.

Drift stared at him. “Tell me you did not walk out of the medbay to come see me when you’re still supposed to be on berthrest.”

“All right,” Ratchet said as he leaned forward and put his head down on the desk. “I did not walk out of the medbay to come see you when I’m supposed to be on berthrest. Would I do something like that?”

“ _Ratchet!_ ”

“I told you before, you don’t have to take care of me,” the medic grumbled, but there was no derailing Drift now.

“And I told  _you_  that someone needs to because you sure as pit don’t,” Drift shot back.

First Aid gave Rodimus an amused look. “Can I sent Lancet to get him now?” he asked over the sound of Drift scolding Ratchet for leaving the medbay before he was healthy enough to be discharged and Ratchet snarking back that he wouldn’t have  _needed to_  if Drift had just come to see him instead, and Rodimus nodded, still grinning hugely. First Aid opened a comm to the medbay and said, “He’s in Drift’s office, Lancet. Bring a stretcher. Don’t worry, I don’t think he’s going to fight you much this time–oh, Drift already called you? Huh, that was fast.” He glanced at Rodimus. “They’re already on their way.”

Drift’s office door slid open just under a minute later. Lancet and Ambulon both came in, pushing a stretcher, and Ratchet scowled at it. “Don’t even,” Drift told him firmly before the CMO could get started. “This is your own fault.”

“It’s completely unnecessary to wheel me through the halls like an invalid,” Ratchet muttered, but true to First Aid’s prediction, he didn’t fight when the junior medics each took an arm and lifted him bodily onto the stretcher. He covered his face with both hands. “Ugh, this is so embarrassing.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you did your little escape trick,” Ambulon replied without a trace of sympathy. “Say goodbye, Ratchet. Visit’s over now. You’re going right back to your berth and this time I’ve got half a mind to magnetize your stubborn aft to it to keep you there.”

Ratchet groaned again and didn’t uncover his face. Drift looked like he was trying hard not to grin. “Hey, Ratchet?” he said as the medics strapped Ratchet in and covered him with a heating tarp. “You know that first question you asked?”

“Yeah?” Ratchet moved one hand a little, just enough to bare one optic and look at Drift.

The swordsmech smiled. “I’ll consider changing my answer to yes, but only on the condition that you behave until you’re  _really_  discharged. Deal?”

Rodimus and First Aid both cackled and fist-bumped, and even Red Alert grinned. Ratchet stared at Drift for a long moment and then covered his face again. “Dammit,” he grumbled, but Rodimus was pretty sure those famous hands were hiding a smile of his own this time. “Why did that have to be the condition?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's winding up, folks! and here are your lyrics, be warned, they are EXTREMELY cavity-inducing http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/skillet/whispersinthedark.html


	16. First Day Of My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diabetics might want to skip this chapter. I found this one almost unbearably sweet.

Drift knocked on the frame of Ratchet’s open door that evening, looking nervous but determined.

Ratchet couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of him. He hadn’t been entirely sure Drift would come no matter what he’d said before Ambulon and Lancet had wheeled him out of Drift’s office on that humiliating stretcher. At least he’d gotten into the lift before actually passing out–he hadn’t wanted any chance of Drift seeing  _that._  The swordsmech was so good at punishing himself with guilt that Ratchet didn’t want to think of what he might do if he thought Ratchet’s decision to go to his office had seriously harmed him.

But Drift was here now and that was what mattered. First Aid had just finished giving Ratchet his evening medications and fuel, and the acting-CMO’s visor brightened when he turned around to see the swordsmech. “Ahh, Drift,” he said warmly. “Are you here for your checkup? You’ve been putting it off, you know.”

Drift shuffled his pedes. “I, ah, actually came to visit Ratchet,” he said, not looking at either one of them when he said it.

First Aid’s field practically danced with happiness. Ratchet shot him a narrow look and Aid didn’t even flinch. It reminded the CMO of how First Aid had praised Drift’s care when Ratchet had first awakened from his stupor, still in Drift’s berth, and insisted that Ratchet not leave until he talked to the swordsmech.

It looked like Ratchet would have to put up with a matchmaker in his medbay.

But that could wait. For now, Ratchet just waved First Aid away from the only chair in the room, the rolling chair that usually went with his desk. “Go on, you’ve fussed over me enough for one day,” he grumbled, and that was the truth. In fact, all three of his junior medics had been in to check him over and scold him for his escape. All right, so he’d blown a few fuses and maybe strained a few welds, but that didn’t mean they  _all_  had to come tell him off, did it?

Aid stood up, but he planted his hands on his hips and made no move to leave. “Your aft better not leave that berth again or we really will magnetize you to it,” he said sternly, then pointed at the half-full cube of recovery blend in Ratchet’s hands. “And I’m going nowhere until that’s gone. You want me to leave, drink up.”

“Being a bad patient, is he?” Drift said as he removed his Great Sword and laid it carefully atop Ratchet’s desk–a desk that was clear of datapads and charts for quite possibly the first time in Ratchet’s life. His medical team had taken everything he could possibly work on away from him, leaving him nothing to do but lie in the berth and be  _bored._

And think about Drift, and all the things he'd refused to think about during the crisis of his heat.

First Aid nodded emphatically. “You have  _no_  idea.”

“Oh, frag off,” Ratchet growled as he sloshed the last of the disgusting fuel around in the cube with a grimace. “And you didn’t have to bring me this slag. I told you I’m ready for regular fuel again. My systems are–”

“–suffering a setback because you went gallivanting across the ship when you should’ve been resting,” the other medic interrupted. “You’re on the recovery blend until I say otherwise.”

“I don’t  _gallivant_ ,” Ratchet said with cold dignity. “I have never once in my life  _gallivanted_. And admit it, you’re only giving me this slag to punish me.”

First Aid was plainly unimpressed. “Quit fishing for sympathy. It won’t work. If you don’t like the recovery blend, you should’ve thought of that before you took off on your little trip. Now stop whining and use your intake to fuel, and that’s an order from your doctor.”

“Enjoying this, aren’t you,” Ratchet said sourly, but he tossed back the last of the recovery blend and shuddered. First Aid plucked the cube from his hands before he could decide whether or not to throw it at his head, and Ratchet had to settle for crossing his arms and glaring. “All right, doctor, I’m all fueled up and medicated like a good little mech. You can toddle off to see the rest of your patients now. Goodbye.”

Drift snorted a laugh as First Aid just calmly dispersed the cube’s field. “Has he been like this the whole time?”

“No,” First Aid said, and shot Ratchet a glance that still managed to be cheeky despite his face being hidden behind visor and mask. “Usually he’s much worse. You sure you want to be here?”

Ratchet poked the other medic’s arm. “Hey, no running off the only visitor I’ve had in days!” he snapped, because it had been hard enough to get Drift to come here at all.

“Maybe you’d have more if you weren’t so–” Ratchet interrupted him with a growl and First Aid laughed, completely unintimidated. “– charming and pleasant and a joy to be around, Ratchet, your wonderful personality just lights up the room.” Ratchet made a very rude gesture and First Aid laughed again before turning to the swordsmech. “Drift, you can spend half an hour with this delightful angel and then he needs to recharge.”

Drift hesitated beside the desk, looking between the two medics. “Should I come back tomorrow instead?” he asked, already starting to reach for his sword again. “I don’t want to tire him out–”

“I’m right here, you know, you could ask  _me,_ ” Ratchet said, and although he tried to keep the acid out of his tone for Drift, he wasn’t entirely successful. Damn it, he  _hated_  this. He was meant to be giving medical treatment, not receiving it, and he didn’t have the slagging patience for this!

But for all that he’d been studiously avoiding Ratchet’s gaze since he set pede in the room, Drift didn’t seem particularly cowed by his tone now. “I could, but I think we all know you’re not to be trusted with your own recovery at this point,” he said with a stern glare that made First Aid’s field flare with quickly-hidden delight again. “Or your health in general. You’re good at a lot of things, Ratchet, but taking care of yourself isn’t one of them.”

Ratchet crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at both of them. “Don’t you start too,” he said, feeling a bit betrayed that Drift was ganging up on him with First Aid.

First Aid patted Drift’s shoulder as he headed for the door. “I can see that you’re in good hands, Ratchet. I’ll be back to check on you again later.”

“Don’t rush,” Ratchet muttered, but First Aid just waved over his shoulder and walked out.

And closed the door behind him.

Ratchet had to fight not to roll his optics at First Aid’s obviousness. That door hadn’t been closed once since he’d awakened. Not when Rodimus had visited and asked a bunch of pointed questions Ratchet had refused to answer. Not when Swerve had come and offered to fill him in on all the ship’s gossip. Not even when Perceptor and First Aid had questioned him in excruciating detail about exactly how he’d administered the synthetic nanite blend to Drift so they could share word of their discovery with Cybertron and help other mecha who couldn’t or wouldn’t interface during their heat cycles.

But now Drift came to see him for the first time and suddenly he was allowed privacy again?

Drift reset his vocalizer and Ratchet decided to worry about First Aid’s matchmaking later. He shifted in the berth a little to see the speedster better, and just the sight of him was enough to banish most of Ratchet’s bad mood. Frag, but Drift was gorgeous, just absolutely  _gorgeous_  in a way that made Ratchet’s fuel pump quicken and his hands shake.

But it was the concern in Drift’s optics that held Ratchet’s gaze now, not his sleek and lovely frame, and he found a smile to send him in an attempt to ease the nervousness he saw alongside it. “So…” Ratchet said, and reset his own vocalizer when the word came out hoarse. “I’m glad you came.”

Drift ducked his head as though that simple sentiment embarrassed him. “I should’ve come before,” he said as he finally crossed the room to the chair First Aid had vacated but didn’t sit down. “I… I didn’t know what to say to you.”

Ratchet waved a hand as though the two weeks he’d spent lying in this berth and wondering where Drift was and why he hadn’t come to see him didn’t matter, as though he hadn’t been afraid that the swordsmech now associated him with the same kind of horrors as his prior heats and would never want to see him again.

Definitely not sharing  _any_ of that with Drift. “That’s in the past. I’m just glad you’re here now,” Ratchet said… and he’d already said that, hadn’t he. Ratchet fought the urge to facepalm and barely won, but when Drift didn’t fill the awkward conversational void, he said the first thing that came into his mind, falling back into the familiar role of CMO Ratchet even though he had already informed his team that he would no longer be overseeing Drift’s care. “You’ve been putting off your checkups?”

The swordsmech gave him a sardonic look. “I don’t think  _you_  get to lecture me on taking care of myself after you ditched your medical team and walked across half the ship to come pass out in my office.”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “I didn’t pass out in your office,” he said, which was technically true. He’d just gotten dizzy and lightheaded, and anyone kissing Drift would feel like that. It was completely understandable. The other medics were going overboard with their fussing.

“Close enough,” Drift said. His hands tightened on the back of the chair. “How bad was it?” he asked quietly after a moment.

“Just a few tripped fuses. Really, they’re overreact–”

“Not today,” Drift interrupted, looking at his hands instead of at Ratchet. “Before.”

Ratchet didn’t answer right away. He really didn’t want to answer at all, to be honest, but he doubted Drift would let him get away with that. “Sit down, you’re putting a crick in my neck from looking up at you,” he said instead. Drift glanced at him and clearly wasn’t fooled because Ratchet didn’t have to look up that far to see him properly, but he started to sit down in the chair anyway. “No, not there. Here,” Ratchet said quickly, scooting over on his berth. He wondered if Drift would sit beside him, close enough to touch.

He hoped Drift would, but he thought Drift probably wouldn’t.

Drift paused, clearly surprised by the offer, but then he adjusted his scabbards so he could perch on the edge of Ratchet’s berth by his hip. The medic smiled and reached out, and he was even more pleased when Drift took his hand. After being in near constant physical contact for so many days, Ratchet had found he truly missed Drift’s touch.

What he didn’t expect was the way their EM fields entwined at the moment of contact, leaping out to mesh intimately together.

They both vented in sharply at the abrupt closeness and Ratchet closed his optics and tried hard not to moan. This hadn't happened in Drift's office, but Ratchet had already blown a couple of fuses by then. Now that they were repaired again, it felt like Drift was all around him, his field permeating Ratchet’s so that it was difficult to tell where each emotion originated. Nervousness, guilt, yearning, hesitation, fear–Ratchet wasn’t sure how much of that was him and how much was Drift. It wasn’t quite as strong as being imprinted, but it was still an incredibly deep connection.

Instinctively, Ratchet tried to calm his own projections to soothe Drift’s just like he’d done during Drift’s heat. The swordsmech’s fingers tightened around his, but slowly, the nervousness and fear began to ebb. “I didn’t think our fields would still do that,” Drift whispered, and Ratchet reluctantly onlined his optics again to see the swordsmech staring down at their hands. “I thought the imprinting was supposed to end when… when the rest of it did.”

“I did too,” Ratchet admitted. “It didn’t last for me before, either time.”

Ratchet wasn’t sure he was listening. Drift picked up his hand and stared at it, examining it like he’d never seen a hand before. “Perceptor said something about the double imprinting,” Drift mused, turning Ratchet’s hand over and pressing it between both of his. “Said my field had… he said yours…”

Ratchet was pretty sure what Perceptor had told him. The scientist had told Ratchet the same thing. “You saved my life, Drift.”

The grip on his hand became almost painfully tight. “You shouldn’t have done it,” he whispered fiercely as his field throbbed with something near agony. “I was hurting you so much. Why wouldn’t you stop? I was  _begging_ you to stop! I thought you were  _dead,_  Ratchet. I thought I killed you!”

“Drift, no. Hey,” Ratchet said when Drift still didn’t look at him, and he forced himself upright in the bed and cupped Drift’s face with his free hand and made him meet his optics. “Look at me, sweetspark. I’m not dead. I’m  _fine_ , you hear me? And I’m fine because of you. That’s the end of it, you got that? You can’t keep beating yourself up because I’m a stubborn old glitch who takes risks. That’s on me, not you, remember?” Drift’s optics were full of emotion, raw and hurting, and Ratchet wrapped his field around him just as he had during Drift’s heat. “I would do the exact same thing again.”

Drift covered Ratchet’s hand on his cheek and squeezed his fingers tight. “No. Don’t you ever do anything like that for me again.  _Never,_  Ratchet.”

Ratchet wanted to say something flippant, to brush it off like he’d brushed off a hundred other near-death experiences, but he swallowed those words. Drift deserved better. “I won’t have to,” he said instead, because he couldn’t promise what he knew Drift wanted him to. “ _You_  won’t have to. We can make sure your heat coding never makes you go through that again. We've got the answer now.”

Drift closed his eyes and leaned his cheek into Ratchet’s palm, and it was so like the memory of that massage that Ratchet had to fight not to shiver. They stayed like that for several minutes before Drift broke the silence. “I still don’t know why you want to court me,” he said, and his tone was as confused as his field. “I mean, you could find a hundred better mecha just on this ship alone.”

Ratchet again had to stifle his first impulsive response. “I don’t want to court a hundred other mecha on this ship, I want to court  _you_. As for why…” He waited until Drift looked at him again and then shrugged. “That’s what courtship is for, isn’t it? Finding out that kind of thing?”

“You’re asking the wrong person about that. No one’s ever wanted to court me before,” Drift replied, but even though the nervousness in his field surged again, he didn’t look away this time. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” Ratchet replied. He smiled when Drift frowned at him. “No, really, you aren’t obligated to do anything. Once I get released from house arrest here, we’ll just spend time together, take it slow. I’ll give you gifts–you don’t have to accept them, it’s just a traditional thing. But really, there’s not a set of actual  _rules_  or anything. All we’re doing is finding out if we’re a good fit together. If you decide we’re not, you tell me. If I decide we’re not, I’ll tell you,” Ratchet explained, watching Drift’s reactions very closely in his face and field. “But if we decide we are… well, we just keep going with whatever feels like it works and see where it goes.”

Drift looked down at his hand again. “That seems like a lot of unnecessary effort for you,” he finally whispered. “You already know… how I feel. Whatever you want from me, you already know you can pretty much have it.”

Ratchet was getting tired from sitting up–not to mention from the sedative he was fairly certain First Aid had slipped into his fuel, the fragger had a bad habit of doing that–but he straightened his spinal strut anyway. He clearly hadn’t explained himself well enough if Drift thought he was suggesting this courtship because Ratchet was trying to  _get something_  from him.

He tried again. Tired and drugged or not, this was too important to get wrong. “That’s not what this is about, Drift,” he said quietly, hoping he could find the right words. Oddly enough, the slightly drunken feeling of the sedative seemed to help him speak. “It’s about… look, I may not be what you think I am. I’m old, and I’m not very nice. I’ve been fighting this war for a long, long time and it’s been a long damn time since I’ve known how to do anything but fight and work. Yeah, I’ve had friends and lovers, but you don’t get your spark involved with someone you might be scraping off the battlefield the next day. I’m not… dammit, I’m no good at things like relationships or love, is what I’m trying to say. I’ve never felt that way–there was never  _time_ for it.”

Drift was looking at him now, his expression unreadable, and all Ratchet could do was keep going as best he could. “Courting you isn’t about getting something from you, Drift. You might not feel the same way about me, once you get to know me. All I know is that I care about you, and I feel something for you that’s new to me, and I… want to figure it out. That’s all I’m asking from you.” Drift held his optics in silence and Ratchet tried to smile, but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded. “Is it too much to ask?” he whispered. “You don’t owe me anything, you know. You don’t have to do this.”

Drift stared at him for a long moment in silence. Then he smiled, and unlike Ratchet’s halting attempt, Drift’s beautiful smile lit his entire face. “I think I want to,” he said, finally releasing Ratchet’s hand and cupping his face in both of his instead. Then he leaned forward and kissed him, lips soft and sweet, and Ratchet shivered all the way to his fingertips even from such a chaste kiss. Slag, half Ratchet’s protocols were still offline, so how did Drift  _do_  that to him?

It didn’t last nearly long enough. Drift pulled away after only a few seconds. “And you’re about to fall over again and catching you once was enough for me. Lay down before you pass out,” he said, still smiling as he took Ratchet’s shoulders and pushed him down onto the berth.

Ratchet groaned and let Drift guide him back onto the pillows. “First Aid drugged me,” he said irritably, knowing it was true. He wouldn’t be this sleepy while kissing Drift if he wasn’t heavily medicated. Kissing Drift made him anything  _but_ sleepy.

“You know, it’s almost like you’re under medical care or something,” Drift replied with gently mocking amusement. Ratchet snorted and muttered something rude about First Aid’s care plans. “And I thought you were going to behave. When does that start?”

“This  _is_  behaving,” Ratchet grumbled, but it was hard to be properly angry with Drift fluffing his pillows and tucking the heating tarp up around his shoulders. The swordsmech’s field practically glowed with pleasure at taking care of him, which was something Ratchet didn’t understand at all but wasn’t going to argue with. “Didn’t you see me take my medicine and drink that fragging awful recovery crap? I’m behaving perfectly!”

Drift shook his head. “If that’s behaving, I’d hate to see what you were doing before.” Ratchet rolled his optics but with their fields enmeshed like this, it was hard for him to pretend to be truly disgruntled. Drift could feel how much he was enjoying being fussed over, and the look on the swordsmech’s face was confirmation that he didn’t buy the grumpy act at all.

“Seriously though,” he said when Ratchet was settled to his satisfaction and Drift stood up, much to Ratchet’s dismay. Had it already been half an hour? It felt like only a few minutes! “The more you do what they say, the sooner this will be over and you can get back to terrorizing everyone properly again. That’s motivation, right?”

“He’s terrorizing us quite well from that berth, don’t you worry,” First Aid said before Ratchet could reply. Ratchet glared at the Acting CMO–how long had he been there?–but the smaller medic didn’t seem to care. “Sorry, Drift, visiting time’s up. Ratchet needs his rest.”

Drift didn’t argue even though part of Ratchet wished that he would. He wasn’t ready for the swordsmech to go yet. Drift smiled at him, though, and gave him a wink before going and retrieving his Great Sword. “I’ll come see you again tomorrow,” he promised as he slid it into place on his back. “Goodnight, Ratchet. Rest well.”

“You too,” Ratchet said automatically, wishing First Aid would leave for a few more minutes so he could ask Drift for a goodnight kiss. He didn’t, though, and Drift left with a much more confident stride than the hesitant step he’d entered with.

For now, that would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and your unbearably sweet lyrics to go with it: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/brighteyes/firstdayofmylife.html
> 
> And as I've said so many times... one more chapter to go. BUT THIS TIME I'M SERIOUS!


	17. I Touch Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not apologize for the title of this chapter. Not even a little bit. You people keep asking for more chapters so you'll have to deal with the horrible things I name them. Pbbbbbbbth!

They were taking it slow. Ratchet reminded himself that he and Drift had decided to take this slow.

He reminded himself that taking it slow had, in fact, been  _his_  idea.

It was a good idea. They’d both agreed that it was a good idea. It was completely reasonable to back off a little after the intensity of two heats and a near-death experience. It was perfectly logical to ease up and make sure that what they were feeling was real and not something left over from the emotional storm they’d weathered together, especially with the way their EM fields continued to react so strongly whenever they touched. It was understandable to be cautious starting a courtship when neither of them had done it before. Taking things slow was… it was…

…  _oh, it was going to fragging_ kill  _him._

Ratchet groaned, trying to figure out exactly when he’d lost control of the situation. The night had started much more low-key. Neither of them had been interested in the movie Rewind was showing at Movie Night and Swerve was hosting some kind of raucous amateur talent competition in his bar, so Ratchet had invited Drift to his quarters for a drink tonight instead. That wasn’t new. Drift had come to his quarters twice before when they weren’t in the mood to go out publicly–-the third-in-command and the Chief Medical Officer were never truly off-duty to the crew, after all, and sometimes it was nice to put the titles down. Both times it had gone well, and tonight Ratchet really had intended it to be a simple invitation to share a drink again. He’d had no ulterior motives.

And it really  _had_ started off as just a drink. Well, to be honest, a few drinks for Ratchet, not enough to get him overcharged, but his first week back on full duty had been a long and difficult one and he wanted to relax and enjoy his courtmate’s company. As usual, Drift had declined the engex in favor of sipping plain energon while they talked, but when Ratchet had gotten up to refill his drink, that was where this evening began to differ from the others.

This time when Ratchet returned to the couch with his refilled glass, he’d handed the swordsmech a small box he’d quietly commissioned earlier in the week. Drift accepted it with the same nervousness Ratchet had come to expect from prior gifts, but he was learning from every one of Drift’s reactions. This time he was certain he’d gotten a good one.

The startled delight in Drift’s field when he’d seen the softly-glowing assortment of handmade gourmet energon candies inside the box had been worth every single shanix.

And the smiling kiss he’d pressed to Ratchet’s lips… that had just been a bonus.

Drift had insisted on sharing the treats with Ratchet, and the significance of that hadn’t been lost on him. He wouldn’t soon forget the swordsmech’s reaction to Rodimus stealing a sweet from him at Swerve’s. They’d sat together on Ratchet’s little couch–and maybe Drift sat a little closer than usual, but Ratchet wasn’t about to complain about that, oh no–and worked their way through the candy while they talked. Ratchet pretended to eat more than he actually did. He liked sweets well enough, but not nearly as much as Drift did, and anyway, this was supposed to be a courting gift. He gently refused the next time Drift offered him the box to choose his next treat and finished off the last of his drink instead. “I’m full. Besides, I got those for you to enjoy,” he said, softening the rejection by draping his arm around the swordsmech’s shoulders.

“But you haven’t tried the best kind yet!” Drift protested, rummaging in the box and pulling out something pale lavender and squashy that stuck to his fingers. Ratchet hadn’t seen anything like it before and there clearly wasn’t another one in the box.

“You eat it,” Ratchet told him. “It’s the only one. I don’t want to take your fa–”

But Drift had popped it right into his mouth before he could finish the sentence.

It was good. No, it wasn’t merely good, it was  _fantastic,_  and once Ratchet got over the shock of the sudden intensity of the flavor, he even closed his optics to better savor it. “Okay, you’re right,” he murmured as it melted away on his glossa. He opened his optics again to smile at Drift. “That  _is_  the best kind.”

The swordsmech took his glass and put it alongside the box on the table. The long, sleek curve of his frame abruptly pressed full-length against Ratchet from shoulder to hip to knee as he leaned closer. “I could be wrong. Let me make sure,” Drift purred, and kissed Ratchet.

And this was probably where it all started getting out of hand, Ratchet thought now. Yes, he’d kissed Drift on their other dates, but… oh, but not like this. This was no cautious thing, no brief, nearly chaste peck. Drift had leaned fully against him and kissed him deep, glossa sweeping over his once, twice, three times, and then he’d suckled the medic’s lower lip for a moment that was entirely too brief and moaned his enjoyment. “Oh yeah,” he whispered, pulling back only enough to run his glossa over his lips as his field flared with pleasure and unmistakable intent, “that’s definitely my favorite.”

Ratchet should’ve moved back then, but it was easy to say that now. Much harder to do it then with the beautiful speedster invading his personal space and looking up at him with desire smoldering in his optics and invitation saturating his field. Much harder when Drift had just so vividly reminded him how soft his lips were and how much Ratchet had enjoyed kissing him even when his stupor had kept him from actually being aroused by it. Much harder to resist when the charge licking through his systems proved that was no longer even remotely the case, and Ratchet gave in to the urge to pluck one deadly black hand from his own chestplate and raise it to his mouth to lick away the stickiness of the candy that clung to Drift’s fingertips. The residue was stubborn and he had to suckle quite thoroughly to get it all off.

The swordsmech gasped and shivered against his chest, his other hand sliding over the glass. “Ratchet, please,” Drift breathed, his field  _aching_  with a want he made no effort to hide, and the medic had given up pretending that he was doing any of this because he wanted a taste of the candy. He’d caught Drift’s face in both hands and pulled him close and kissed him  _properly_.

He had no idea how much time had passed since then. All Ratchet knew was that Drift had started off sitting beside him but was now draped all the way across his lap and he was pretty sure  _he_  was the one who’d moved him there, and that Drift’s arms were wound tight around his neck as he pressed his frame to Ratchet’s like he couldn’t possibly get close enough, and that his own hands were sliding over the speedster’s body considerably more than they probably ought to be but Drift’s field blazed with delight at every caress, and that Drift tasted like candy and moaned so beautifully and both their fans were blasting and his frame was on fire and he could kiss Drift like this for the next century and it would  _still not be enough._

Ratchet swept a possessive hand down the speedster’s sleek back, over the dip of his waist and hip, down one of those curvy thighs, and back up again, and Drift moaned into his mouth and pressed harder against him. He couldn’t resist doing it again, chasing the shivers that raced through Drift’s frame at his touch, and this time instead of just stroking the tire on the back of his thigh, he slipped his fingertips into the wheel well. Drift threw his head back as though the pleasure of his caress was almost more than he could bear. “ _Primus,_ Ratchet,  _yes_ ,” Drift gasped, and he nuzzled Ratchet’s jaw to tip his head back before kissing his way down the medic’s throat.

And that wasn’t fair, that  _wasn’t fragging fair._  Ratchet’s vents seized and then roared as his head dropped back against the cushions without his conscious permission, an open invitation that Drift took full advantage of. He nibbled down the big energon lines, licked his way back up to the medic’s jaw, made note of every place that made Ratchet shiver or groan and suckled them one by one, soft and slow and wet and  _exactly what he loved_  and now it was Ratchet’s turn to gasp and swear and moan Drift’s name.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, he caught Drift’s cheek in his hand and lifted his head. Their optics met as he bent to kiss him again, and the fierce desire in those blue depths matched his own. Ratchet wanted to say something, felt like it was important to say  _something_ , but he had no idea what it was and Drift kissed him again before he could get out anything more than, “Oh,  _Drift–”_

And now here they were, drinks and candy and conversation all forgotten in favor of endless, ravenous kisses, hands roaming all over each other, both of them venting hot and trembling and straining to get closer, to get  _more_.

And absolutely  _none_  of this qualified as  _taking it slow_.

Ratchet mustered all his strength and finally pulled away to press his forehelm against Drift’s. “We should stop,” he panted in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.

Drift’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “No, no please don’t stop,” he whimpered, panting just as fast as Ratchet. He arched against the medic’s chest, shifting on his lap in a sensuous curve that just couldn’t be accidental. He mouthed at Ratchet’s throat again between words and that was  _cheating,_  that was fragging cheating and it wasn’t fair and his fans ached from spinning so hard. “I love kissing you, Ratchet, I love the way you touch me. Primus, you’re driving me crazy, I’ve never wanted  _anyone_  like this,  _please_  don’t stop–” And he kissed Ratchet again before he could reply.

_Fragging. Killing. Him._

Ratchet tried to resist, he really did, but he failed pretty miserably, and for several more minutes he couldn’t think about anything but the pleasure of Drift’s kiss and the passion in his field and that gorgeous little whine in the back of his throat when Ratchet let his fingertips dip back down alongside his tires. He wasn’t sure what was sexier, the perfect way Drift fit in his arms or the thought that this insanely gorgeous speedster wanted  _him_  this badly, but when both were combined with kisses like this and topped off with Drift’s field sparking fire where it meshed with his…

… and then Drift’s own fingertips found a certain set of transformation seams down the sides of his chest and Ratchet cried out and had to send three increasingly frantic overrides to his panel’s retraction command string to keep it from popping open.  _Frag,_  Drift hadn’t forgotten anything he’d learned about what Ratchet liked during his heat, and he was well on the way to dismantling Ratchet’s last shreds of control. 

And Drift kept kissing him, long, passionate kisses that reminded him of how eagerly Drift had kissed him during his heat and the way he moaned into Ratchet's mouth as he played with his slippery little anterior node. Drift would let him do that again, he could tell. He could slide his hand down between those gorgeous thighs and he just knew Drift would open right up for him, bare his array and let him play all he wanted, tease him to overload after overload and feel his sweet, tight valve ripple and pulse around his fingers...

Ratchet groaned, his spike throbbing behind his panel. It was all he could do to fight free of the desire threatening to drown his good intentions, but somehow Ratchet managed it. “Oh  _frag_ , sweetspark, if I don’t stop now, I’m not going to be able to,” he panted when he finally managed to force himself to stop kissing Drift. He caught hold of Drift’s hands and pulled them away from those caresses that felt entirely too good. His frame cursed him for it and his reactivated interface protocols joined in with adamant complaints of their own, but dammit, Ratchet had asked Drift to let him give him a proper courtship, to  _go slow._  The speedster hadn’t agreed to half a dozen dates and an impulsive frag on Ratchet’s couch, no matter how hot they were both running right now.

Drift’s fingers flexed in his as though he was just barely restraining himself from pulling them free and going back to those seams. “You don’t have to stop at all,” he whispered.

Ratchet rested his forehelm against Drift’s again, but this time he wasn’t remembering ‘facing with Drift during their heats. This time Ratchet remembered how ferociously Drift had fought for him when he couldn’t fight for himself. In his mind’s eye he saw Drift standing fierce and proud before him with swords in hand and energon streaking his armor after taking on a score of mecha to ensure that Ratchet had a choice he had never even thought to ask for. He thought of Drift facing down an angry crowd and snarling, “ _It doesn’t matter who won, it matters who he_ wants _!”_

 _I know who I want,_  Ratchet thought, pulling away just enough to meet his courtmate’s optics and caressing Drift’s cheek. “Yeah, I do. I didn’t invite you here tonight as a ploy to get you in the berth. I really do want to court you right,” he said gently. “You deserve it.”

Drift closed his optics and sighed harshly, but while he didn’t even try to hide the disappointment in his field, Ratchet could feel that he wasn’t angry. In fact, the main emotion in his field was confusion. Drift dropped his helm onto the medic’s shoulder but this time he left his throat and his seams alone. “I’m not used to this,” he whispered almost as though to himself. “I’m not used to being wanted for… for anything besides fragging or fighting. I’m still not sure what you want me to  _do_.”

Ratchet’s arms tightened reflexively around the swordsmech. He had to fight down a surge of anger before he could answer in anything close to his normal tone–not anger at Drift, never that, but at all those who hadn’t valued him properly in the past. “You don’t have to do anything, sweetspark. You’re worth so much more than just those skills, and that’s why I want to wait. I need you to know that I’m courting you because I want  _all_  of you.”

The swordsmech sighed against Ratchet’s shoulder again. “And as sweet as that sounds and as much as I love to hear you say things like that, it’s still really hard to wait when I know exactly what I’m missing,” the swordsmech breathed, looping his arms around Ratchet’s waist and squeezing tight. “It’s hard to wait when you make me this fragging hot.”

Ratchet groaned. “ _Not. Helping,_ ” he said through gritted denta as memories of the taste of Drift’s valve and the perfect way the swordsmech’s spike had filled him up flooded his mind. The memories from their heats had been haunting him and Ratchet had wondered if it had been nothing more than their coding making it so good. Well, if tonight had proved anything, it was that they didn’t need any damn coding to set the berth on fire. “That was  _extremely_  unhelpful, I hope you know.”

When Drift looked up, his grin didn’t even come close to apologetic. “Serves you right. If I have to be aching and miserable, you do too,” he said. Then he gave Ratchet a considering look. “What do your  _proper courtship_  customs have to say about us doing this again sometime?”

The medic smiled, partly at the way Drift said  _proper courtship_  like it was one of Ultra Magnus’ annoyingly over-strict rules, but also at the respect that his question showed. As revved up as Drift was, he was still willing to abide by the boundaries Ratchet had set rather than continuing to push if it might not be welcome. “I’d be disappointed if we didn’t,” he replied with a smile of his own. “Making out is definitely allowed.”

“Good,” Drift said as he slid off Ratchet’s lap and got to his feet. He subspaced the rest of the candy and picked up his Great Sword from atop Ratchet’s desk–the medic always made sure there was an empty space for it now–and slid it back into its place on his back. Ratchet’s spark sank with disappointment at this clear sign that he was leaving. Drift must’ve felt it in his field because he gave him a crooked smile. “If I’m not allowed to kiss you anymore tonight then I need to get away from you, because if I stay in the same room with you right now, I am definitely going to jump you again.”

Ratchet filed that tidbit with the others under  _fragging unhelpful information_  and stood, too. “I’ll walk with you,” he said, and when Drift gave him a look that clearly said exactly how unnecessary he found that, he just shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, I know you could kick my aft all up and down this ship but I’m an old-fashioned mech. Humor me and let me walk you home.”

“That’s not what I want to do with your aft,” Drift shot back with a wink as he picked up his short swords. Ratchet groaned again and tried not to fixate on the red and white stripes curving around Drift’s waist as the swordsmech twisted to clip his scabbards to his hips, but it was impossible to tear his gaze away. Dammit, it just wasn’t  _fair_  for Drift to be so damn sexy.

Then Drift turned unexpectedly and caught him looking. He grinned and leaned a hip against the desk, striking an alluring pose. “You can walk me home if I get a goodnight kiss when we get there,” he said, optics bright with mischief.

Those sparkling optics promised trouble and the medic couldn’t resist it. “One,” Ratchet said, acceptance and warning rolled into one, and Drift had grinned and gestured for the medic to lead the way.

The corridor outside the medbay was deserted at this hour and when they entered the lift, Ratchet gave in to the urge to reach out and take Drift’s hand. Holding hands might be a little silly but it also felt right, somehow, especially when Drift looked up at him in surprise and then smiled and laced their fingers together. Drift automatically started to release him when the lift stopped and the doors opened, but Ratchet didn’t let go. He pretended not to notice Drift’s astonishment as he led him out into the corridor still hand-in-hand where anyone might see them now, but he was acutely aware of it. Every time he glanced over at the speedster as they walked toward his hab suite, he had the same hint of smile curving his lips as though he just couldn’t quite wipe the expression away. Ratchet squeezed his fingers and Drift glanced up, that little smile blooming into a full-fledged grin.

Foolish as it was, Ratchet couldn’t help returning it.

Drift’s field warmed with embarrassment and pleasure and he ducked his head, and Ratchet was struck by a sudden thought. He hadn’t held hands in longer than he could remember, but had anyone  _ever_  held Drift’s hand like this? Had he ever been given small, silly gestures of affection without it being expected to lead to ‘facing?

And hard as it was, Ratchet was once more sure he’d done the right thing in waiting to make love to Drift again.

The medic had to force himself to let go of Drift’s hand when they got to his quarters on the officers’ level, but the swordsmech didn’t immediately open his door. “Where’s my kiss?” he prompted, pure sass in face and field as he put his hands on Ratchet’s hips and tugged him closer.

Ratchet rolled his optics at Drift’s impatience, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t been looking forward to this the entire way here too. “Right here.” He cupped Drift’s face in his hands and leaned in, holding his determination to keep this kiss short utmost in his mind. His resistance was low right now. He couldn’t handle much more temptation tonight.

Drift was having none of that. He slid both arms around the medic’s neck, pulled him right up against his frame, and kissed him as passionately as if they’d never stopped making out on Ratchet’s couch.

Ratchet groaned and fell against him. His good intentions went up in flames and his entire universe narrowed to one singular point of focus–Drift’s arms holding him tight; Drift’s frame pressed against his; Drift’s kiss sizzling every last thought out of his processor;  _Drift_. One kiss became two, and Ratchet forgot how to count after that. He braced one hand on the doorframe and wrapped his other arm around the speedster’s waist and just held on for dear life as Drift kissed him again and again and again until nothing existed for Ratchet but  _this_.

It was actually Drift who pulled away this time. “You can come in,” he murmured against the medic’s lips, their breath mingling hot between them as he stroked the back of Ratchet’s neck with feather-soft fingertips. “You can stay.”

As alluring as that prospect was, the invitation served as a much-needed reminder to Ratchet that yes, they  _were_ making out in the very public corridor and just because no one had caught them yet didn’t mean no one would. Rodimus lived right next door, after all, and he kept completely random hours. Ratchet didn’t much fancy the idea of being teased by his captain about losing control of himself to the point that he’d forgotten where he was.

Worse, Ultra Magnus’ room was right across the hall and he wouldn’t hesitate to write both of them up for public indecency, and that wouldn’t reflect well on him or Drift. Despite Rodimus’ example, officers were supposed to be more professional than that.

_I’m not used to this… I’m not used to being wanted for anything besides fragging or fighting._

More than any of his other concerns, though, the memory of Drift’s words gave Ratchet the strength he needed to pull away. “Oh, you tempt me,” he whispered, trembling with the force of his desire as he forced himself to shake his head.  _He deserves to be courted right._

 _If it fragging_ kills _me, I’m going to convince him that I want him for more than that._

Drift was venting as fast as Ratchet but he still managed a smile. “I’m certainly trying to,” he admitted with no shame at all, and the medic couldn’t help but laugh softly. Drift finally keyed in his access code and opened his door, but instead of entering, he leaned close and whispered right in the medic’s audial. “You should know that the instant I close this door I’ll have my spike in hand and I’ll be thinking of you as I get myself off. I’ll be remembering the taste of your valve, how hot and tight you felt around me, the sounds you make when you overload. You’ve got me so revved up that it’ll probably take more than one overload before I can recharge. In fact, it might take me all night to burn off so much charge, and I’ll be lying sprawled across that berth we shared and pretending it’s you touching me the entire time.”

Then he pulled back and smiled as he met Ratchet’s stunned gaze. “I hope you have a good night, too, Ratchet,” Drift said sweetly, and gave Ratchet a chaste peck on the cheek and disappeared inside before the medic could unlock his glossa and even attempt to find any words to reply.

Ratchet stood there staring at the door for a long time before he managed to close his mouth. It took him even longer to remember how his knees worked. Somehow he managed to get back to his quarters without the slightest recollection of how he got there, Drift’s words looping in his processor until it was all he could do to punch in his access code correctly.

_Fragging. Killing. Him._

And he was loving every second of it.

.

Rodimus was only a little surprised when Drift commed him two hours later.  _::Hey Rod, you busy?::_

 _::For a sexy thing like you? Never. Come on over,::_  he replied, and snorted when the entry request ping sounded as soon as he finished speaking. He had to have commed him from right outside the door. That was just so… Drift.  _::You know the code and I’m not getting up. Get your aft in here.::_

The door opened and closed, and then the couch heaved as Drift flung himself down onto the opposite end from where Rodimus lay in a comfortable sprawl with his legs dangling over the arm. The swordsmech imitated his position over the other half of the couch and his sparkfelt sigh sounded very loud right beside Rodimus’ helm. “Help me,” he whimpered in the most pitiful tone Rodimus had ever heard the other speedster use.

He couldn’t help laughing. “Wow, sounds serious,” he said, reaching up and patting whatever part of Drift’s helm he could reach–it was something spiky, but considering it was Drift’s helm, that didn’t narrow it down that much. And then, because he was Rodimus, he slyly added, “Or maybe you’d rather I call for a medic?”

Drift’s whole frame went still. “Why would you say–” he began.

Rodimus snickered. “Neither  _one_ of you noticed me? That’s  _fantastic_. I know Ratchet was completely gone but I thought you would’ve still been a little more aware of your surroundings. Apparently not. Too busy smooching the Chief Medical Officer’s processor into stasis, you naughty thing.” Drift shifted and he tilted his helm back to see the swordsmech had gone up on one elbow to stare down at him, jaw dropped. Rodimus gave him a very smug upside-down grin. “Oh yeah, I saw that. In fact I walked right past you and Ratchet and  _damn_ , my friend, get a room next time. I thought you two were about to do it right there in the corridor. You might want to check for scorch-marks on your door 'cuz that looked  _hot._ ” Drift groaned and dropped back down onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. Rodimus chuckled and went back to patting his helm, still grinning. “You might be interested to know that he stood outside your door for about five minutes after you said whatever it was in his audial. I don’t know what you told him, but my guess is something really dirty because I was starting to worry that you broke him.”

Drift didn’t uncover his face when he answered. “Did he look angry?”

That was unexpected enough to break Rodimus out of his teasing. He swung his pedes down and sat up so he could look at his friend properly. “Drift, I think it’s safe to say that  _angry_  is pretty much the opposite of how he looked. I really thought he was about to knock on your door and tell you he changed his mind about staying the night. Why would you think he’d be angry?”

It took Drift a long time to answer. “I… we were in his quarters, and I… I started kissing him, and it got pretty hot, Rodimus, I mean  _really_  hot, but… but then he stopped and I didn’t want him to so I kept pushing for more,” he said without removing his hands from his face. “I know I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it! He had me so revved up and I thought he wanted me too, but no matter what I say or do, he still won’t frag me! What am I doing wrong, Rodimus? I don’t know what he  _wants!_ ”

All right, this really was serious. “Okay, back up. Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Rodimus said, because this was the very first time Drift had mentioned Ratchet’s courtship to him and he’d been very careful not to let on that he’d seen what had happened in Drift’s office three weeks ago. He didn’t want to blow that now by coming across as a little too knowledgeable of the situation.

Besides, he needed to know Drift’s perception of what was going on here if he was going to try to actually come up with meaningful advice.

Drift groaned and sat up, too. “We’ve been… kind of seeing each other,” Drift muttered as he grabbed a cushion and wrapped both arms around it, pulling his knees to his chest. 

Rodimus couldn’t stop the delighted grin from spreading over his face and didn’t try. “ _Cool,_ ” he said with feeling, nudging the ball of swordsmech with one pede. “Define  _kind of seeing each other_ for me, though, with a special emphasis on how you went from telling me you were positive he’d never look at you that way to kissing each others’ brains out in the hall tonight. Details, Drift, I need  _details_.”

And, after a few false starts, Drift gave him details, and he did start at the beginning. Rodimus listened in growing shock as Drift told him about going into heat right after Ratchet’s finished–how was that even  _possible?_ –and everything Ratchet had done to get Drift through it despite his own stupor. Rodimus didn’t bother to ask why Drift couldn’t just get through his heat the usual way. He knew enough of his friend’s history to make a guess, and whatever the reason was, it had to have been a good one for Ratchet to be willing to risk his own life to buy the rest of the medical team time to find another way to sate Drift’s glitched coding.

“Wow, Drift,” he finally managed when the swordsmech went silent. He remembered Ultra Magnus running through the medbay with Drift and Ratchet in his arms and shook his head, genuinely speechless for one of the few times in his functioning. He’d thought Drift had been exaggerating when he’d yelled  _I almost killed you_  at Ratchet in his office, but apparently that had been nothing more than the truth. Drift’s heat had almost killed  _both_  of them. “Just… wow.”

“I thought he’d never want to see me again after all of that,” Drift said. He was speaking to the pillow but Rodimus wasn’t going to pick on him for avoiding optic contact after a story like that.

Rodimus reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Are you joking right now? He did all of that for you and you thought… Drift, no one goes that far for someone they unless they really care about them, and I’m not talking about obligation or friendship.” Drift bit his lip and still didn’t look up, and Rodimus pushed on. He didn’t want to dwell on that part of it. Drift was much too good at getting hung up on guilt and that was the last thing Rodimus wanted him to do right now. “And clearly Ratchet  _does_  still want to see you, so hurry up and get to the good stuff. Ratchet got better and now you two are sucking face in his rooms and in the hallway, so I have to repeat my original question:  _seeing each other_  means exactly what? And equally importantly, how am I only just now hearing about this?”

That finally got Drift to look at him again. “I’m sorry, Rodimus, I should’ve told you–”

“ _Drift!_ Start with the _first_ question!” Rodimus interrupted, shoving him now because of  _course_  Drift fixated on that one. “I’m just messing with you, for frag’s sake. I want to hear more about the taming of the Hatchet!”

Drift got the strangest look on his face at that, like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or be offended, and finally he just shook his head and ignored it. “I don’t  _know_ what it means, that’s the whole  _problem_ ,” he wailed, dropping his helm back against the cushions. “We’ve gone out a few times, and he’s just… I don’t know, he says he likes being with me and sometimes he gives me presents but he says he doesn’t want  _anything_  in return when I ask. All he’ll say is that it’s enough just to spend time with me, and yeah, he’ll kiss me at the end of the night and it’s wonderful but then it doesn’t _go_ anywhere! I thought the first time he invited me to watch a movie in his quarters that we’d… you know, that he wanted to ‘face, but he didn’t, he really just wanted to watch a movie. Same thing tonight! He even outright said that he didn’t invite me over as a ploy to get me in the berth, and I don’t know how to make him understand that he doesn’t  _need_  a ploy! Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I hate doing regular things with him or something, I really do like spending time with him no matter what we’re doing, he’s smart and he’s got this wicked sense of humor and once he gets going he’s funny as hell, but… dammit, Roddy, I want  _more_  than kisses from him and I thought he wanted me too so I tried to take things in that direction tonight and I thought it was working, I could’ve sworn he was as into it as I was, but then…”

Drift sighed harshly and Rodimus jumped into the break in the flood of words. Primus, his friend had it bad. “Drift,” he said cautiously, “do you know what you’re describing right now?”

“Me dying of sexual frustration?” Drift moaned.

“Besides that, sheesh.” Rodimus nudged him with his pede again until Drift looked at him. “He’s taking you on dates, giving you gifts, not rushing to get you in the berth… Drift, Ratchet’s courting you.”

“I already told you that,” Drift said impatiently.

“No, you said you two were  _kind of seeing each other_. You most definitely did not say that Ratchet was  _courting_  you.” Drift just looked at him blankly and Rodimus was hit with a sudden realization. “You don't know what that means, do you?”

Drift let his arms flop down at his sides and stared dramatically up at the ceiling again. “That I’m going to keep on dying of sexual frustration?”

Rodimus snorted. How a grumpy old ambulance like Ratchet could get someone as gorgeous as Drift all wound up and desperate like this was beyond his ability to understand, but he supposed there was no accounting for taste. “Get your mind out of the berth for five minutes, this is serious,” he scolded. Drift groaned but stopped complaining and Rodimus tried to say this as plainly as possible because he knew how Drift could misinterpret things. “Okay, try not to freak out on me right now, but when a mech says they want to court you, it means they’re not looking at you as someone just to have a little fun with in the berthroom. They’re looking at you as a possible conjunx endura.”

Drift’s helm whipped around so fast that he nearly fell off the couch. He gaped at Rodimus and it was all the captain could do not to laugh at the almost comical expression of shock on his face, but he managed it. “Did you really not know that Ratchet was that serious?” he asked as gently as he could, and when Drift silently shook his head, jaw still dropped, he frowned. This was suddenly a lot less funny. “Are you  _okay_  with him being that serious? Because if you’re not on the same page, if you just want him for a lover instead of a sparkmate, you need to tell him sooner rather than later. You can’t lead him on, not about something like this.”

Drift finally managed to recover his voice. “No! I mean–I mean  _yes,_  Primus yes I want that, you know how I feel about Ratchet, but Rodimus, are you sure he meant it like that? I mean… are you  _sure?_ ”

“Yeah, you idiot, I’m sure,” Rodimus said, rolling his optics. Fragging pit, if there was any possible opening to misunderstand and have doubts, Drift would find it. “There’s no other way to mean it. If Ratchet asked if he could court you, he’s very serious about you.”

“Primus,” Drift whispered. Rodimus watched him think it over and remembered another conversation they’d had on this very couch, one that had ended with Drift clutching his helm in his hands and whispering  _I love him, Primus help me, I’ve loved him all my life and he will always see Deadlock when he looks at me_ like the admission cut his spark to shreds. He waited for Drift to start smiling now because why  _wouldn’t_  this be good news, but when Drift’s expression changed, it wasn't to joy, it was to fear. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to do this and I’m going to mess everything up, I’m going to get it all wrong and make him change his mind. You have to help me, Rodimus! I can't frag this up, I'm never going to get another chance with him, _please,_ tell me what to  _do!_ ”

Rodimus decided that  _respecting personal space_  was something that happened to other people and dragged Drift into a hug. “First of all, you need to stop freaking out,” Rodimus told him firmly. “You’re not going to mess anything up. Seriously, what the hell, Drift? The mech you love wants to court you and your first reaction is to start anticipating disaster, what kind of slagged-up attitude is that?”

“The attitude of someone who  _has no fragging clue what he’s doing,_ ” Drift shot back, but for all his snark, he was shaking. “I want this, Rod, I want it so much but I don’t know the rules for this and Ratchet won’t tell me–he just says there aren’t any!”

“That’s because there really aren’t,” Rodimus reassured him, hoping to stave off a full-blown meltdown but glad for this indication that Drift and Ratchet had at least had some kind of a conversation about expectations. That was a good sign. He sat back but didn't let go of Drift's shoulders. “I know there used to be but that was a seriously long slagging time ago, I mean way back before the war. Stuff like… oh, like the courting gifts were supposed to prove that a mech could provide for their courtmate or whatever, but now it’s just a way to show that they’re paying attention to what you like. See? Things are a lot less formal now. And more importantly, I saw the way he kissed you and I can tell you this much for free–Ratchet _definitely_  wants you,” Rodimus added, because how could Drift not know this? He snickered at the memory of watching the dazed medic stumble back toward the lift, going right past Rodimus without even seeing him. “You had him so fired up that he couldn’t even walk straight down the hall.”

Drift vented in sharply. “Really?”

Rodimus rolled his optics again. “Yeah,  _really._  I’m not the one to go to for courtship advice but I know lust when I see it, and he was  _dripping_  with it. I’m sure he’s waiting because he’s old-fashioned or trying to be a gentlemech or some slag like that.”

“He said something like that,” Drift admitted, and Rodimus made an  _ah-ha! see?_  noise. “He said he was waiting because he wanted all of me, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means he's after more than your hot sexy frame,” Rodimus said because wasn’t that obvious? “Which is what I already  _said_. He sounds like he’s really serious about you, Drift. This is gonna be good! You’ve gotta tell me everything.”

Drift looked up, clearly horrified. “Wait, does all of that mean that he’s not going to ‘face with me  _at all_  while we’re courting?”

“Primus, could you  _be_  any more frag-obsessed?” Rodimus said, and laughed at his friend’s scowl. “I don’t have any idea, but if this isn’t working for you and you really can't wait, you need to tell him so. Ask for what you want instead of trying to hint at it. As for the rest of the courtship stuff, just try to relax and follow Ratchet’s lead. You can do that, right? He’s been around long enough, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

To his surprise, though, Drift shook his head. “He… he said he hasn’t done this before either,” he admitted.

Rodimus let go of him and punched his arm. “What the–fragging slag, Drift! You’re working yourself into a glitch stressing about doing something wrong when Ratchet’s just as clueless as you are?” Drift actually laughed at that and looked surprised to do so, and Rodimus smacked him again. “I swear to Primus, I don’t know whether to send you to Rung for therapy or to the medbay to have them extract your damn head out of your aft.”

Drift snorted and hit him back. Rodimus kicked him, Drift retaliated with the pillow, and they both laughed when it got tangled up in his helm flares. He yanked on it, intending to smack Drift back with it, but then there was a loud  _riiiiiip_  and an explosion of fluff. “Dammit, Drift!” Rodimus yelled as stuffing and fabric floated down around his head and the swordsmech giggled and refused to help get it off him.

“So since we’re both clueless, tell me what  _you_  know about it, then,” Drift said once Rodimus managed to get all the shredded fabric off his helm, and Rodimus was glad to see that the smile stayed this time. “Old rules, new ones, I don’t care. Tell me everything. Maybe it’s different now but it’ll still help me not feel so lost about the whole thing.”

Rodimus flung the deflated pillow at his face and stuck his glossa out when Drift snatched it out of the air with disgusting ease. “All right, fine. But you have to tell me everything about you and Ratchet in return. I want all the good stuff. Deal?” Drift nodded and Rodimus leaned back, grinning. “You start, cuz I’m still in shock that you didn’t notice me standing not ten feet away from you. Is Ratchet really  _that_ good of a kisser?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, [LOOK WHAT RAYEARTHMAGIC DREW!](http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/125888008962/rayearthmagic-finished-inspired-by-drift-in) *tackle-hugs you* Drift is ADORABLE, and the Rodimus Star on the pillow is pure perfection!
> 
> I'm not even going to try to pretend I have any form of control over this story anymore. I think the next chapter is finally going to end it, but I've said that like 3 times now and I give up. It's never going to end. Never ever ever. *glares at muse*
> 
> Here's your lyrics, as though everyone doesn't already know the words to this one! http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/divinyls/itouchmyself.html


	18. Communication Breakdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's late! Texas Comic Con was this weekend and I MET PETER CULLEN AND FRANK WELKER, OPTIMUS PRIME AND MEGATRON AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! *checks off two marks on the bucket list* So yeah, that took up all my free time and money and I have ZERO regrets because it was amazing to meet these two men who are basically the voices playing in the background of my best childhood memories. And they were every bit as wonderful as I'd always dreamed they would be!

Ratchet was just about to leave his quarters to relieve First Aid on duty the next morning when an entry-request ping sounded at his door. That was unusual, but not unheard of. No one came to Ratchet’s hab suite to actually visit but Drift, and it wouldn’t be Drift right now because he knew for a fact that the swordsmech’s duty shift was also due to start shortly. It was much more likely to be a crew member wanting to ask him an embarrassing medical question off the record, and he sighed. He didn't know why they thought accosting him at home during his off-duty hours was more likely to be private than seeing him in an exam room in the medbay, and despite making a point of never seeing patients in his quarters, some still persisted in trying. Apparently it was time for another reminder that the place for medical consultations was in the damn medbay. He didn't even try to hide his scowl as he answered the door.

But it  _was_  Drift, and he rearranged his face in a hurry. “Drift! I wasn't expecting you,” Ratchet said, startled, and quickly went on because he didn’t want Drift to think that meant Ratchet wasn’t happy to see him. “I didn't think I'd see you until the race broadcast tonight–is everything all right?”

Drift nodded, but he wasn’t quite meeting Ratchet’s optics. “You have a minute?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the empty hallway.

Ratchet stepped back in invitation. “Yes, but only a minute, I’m afraid,” he said, wondering what had his courtmate looking so… spooked, for want of a better word. “My shift starts soon and I think yours does, too?” Honestly, though, he was less concerned with his duty shift than with whatever had happened to put that look on Drift. If Ratchet had to be late to relieve First Aid in order to find out what it was, he’d damn well be late. Call it a perk of being Chief Medical Officer. He closed the door behind Drift and couldn’t keep from asking again, “Is everything all right?”

Once again, Drift nodded, but the instant the door was closed, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Ratchet. Ratchet hugged him back out of reflex and Drift snuggled into his embrace with a soft sigh. “Drift?” Ratchet murmured, caught off-guard. Drift didn’t usually initiate embraces like this. Last night had been the first time he’d really taken the lead in anything physical, and…

… oh. That was probably it. “Are you upset about last night?” he asked. He hoped he wasn't, but this behavior was out-of-character for him. He didn't seem angry, so at least there was that, but something was clearly going on.

If anything, Drift seemed… shaken. Like he had come to Ratchet seeking reassurance.

Drift didn’t lift his head from Ratchet’s shoulder but his negative head-shake was clear enough and his EM projections didn’t feel upset, but even with their close field connection, the medic had a hard time determining exactly what he  _was_  feeling right now. Ratchet stroked his back with one hand, keeping the other arm snugly around his waist, and waited for him to explain. But Drift merely tucked his helm against Ratchet’s neck and stood there, holding him in silence. “Are you sure?” the medic murmured after a few moments, truly starting to worry now. “You can tell me if something’s wrong, Drift. You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I promise,” Drift whispered. His field gently teased against Ratchet’s, and true to his word, Ratchet couldn’t sense anything that hinted at hidden hurt feelings. All the medic could get out of his projections was some strange mixture of  _unsettled_  and  _relieved_ , neither of which made much sense. Ratchet nudged back gently with his own field, wordlessly conveying his concern and asking for more information, and Drift sighed again as embarrassment entered the emotional mix in his field. “I didn’t understand,” he finally breathed without lifting his head. “What you wanted from me. I didn’t understand. I do now.”

Ratchet’s vents froze. He’d thought they were on the same page with this. He’d asked for exactly what he wanted and he didn’t know how Drift could’ve possibly misunderstood his intentions, but it was clear from his behavior now that something vital had been lost somewhere. But if Drift hadn’t known what Ratchet meant, why had he had accepted his offer of courtship at all? What had he  _thought_ he was agreeing to?

 _I’m not used to being wanted for anything besides fragging or fighting… I’m still not sure what you want me to_ do.

Drift’s words replayed in his head again and Ratchet belatedly considered that a mech who’d lived the kind of life Drift had would have no  _reason_  to know what he’d meant by a proper courtship. Why would he? He sure as pit wouldn’t have encountered anything like that in the Dead End, and the Decepticons were notorious for dedication to the cause above all else. That included personal relationships. His introduction to the Autobots had come via the Wreckers, and they weren’t exactly a walking encyclopedia of romance either. When would Drift have ever learned about this?

And although Ratchet had tried to explain when Drift had come to visit him after he’d gone to the swordsmech’s office, he’d started from the assumption that Drift would know that courtships were meant to end in conjunx declarations. Subtract that vital piece of information from the equation and Ratchet’s explanation, already weak, completely fell apart. He remembered his own words and winced.  _If we decide we’re a good fit, we just keep going with whatever feels like it works and see where it goes_  didn’t explain a damn thing. Yes, Drift had agreed to let Ratchet court him, but he was already in love and Ratchet had been holding his hand and saying he cared for him. Drift would’ve probably agreed to anything Ratchet suggested at that point.

The medic had to force himself not to groan aloud now. No  _wonder_  Drift kept asking what Ratchet wanted him to do! Drift’s affection had always been expressed in actions, in what he could physically give the person he cared for. Just look at his actions until this point. When Ratchet's heat-fight had raged, he’d fought with everything in him, even taking down his best friend, and then he'd turned around and given that hard-won victory right back to Ratchet. That had continued with how he’d treated the medic during and after his heat–he’d given Ratchet more pleasure than he’d ever thought possible, and then instead of foisting him off on others when the fun part was over, he’d kept on caring for him through his stupor. He'd completely devoted himself to Ratchet, putting the medic's needs ahead of his own for days on end despite his injuries and exhaustion. Even when his own heat coding had made him leave Ratchet's side, Drift had ensured that Ratchet was safe and warm and comfortable and fueled, every single need met before he left. By the time Drift whispered those three words into Ratchet's palms, he had already made his love abundantly clear.

Seen through this lens, Ratchet’s own behavior had been confusing as pit. No  _wonder_  Drift never seemed able to fully relax when they were together, no matter what Ratchet said to put him at ease. He’d thought the swordsmech was just nervous, not  _lost_. Drift had asked him repeatedly what he was supposed to do, and when Ratchet’s well-intentioned reassurances hadn’t provided an answer that made sense to him, he’d shifted to trying to read each situation for clues to guide his reactions almost like he would read an enemy's intentions in a fight. Drift had been trying so hard, and Ratchet… well, he was learning that caring about someone didn’t mean he  _understood_  them, and this misunderstanding was of such a magnitude that it really needed a new word to describe it.

Drift hadn’t been asking Ratchet what he could give him in return for the courtship gifts because of a sense of obligation, or to show off his wealth. He hadn’t been asking Ratchet to interface again because he was eager to frag.

He was trying to express his feelings for Ratchet in the only way he’d ever known how.

And Ratchet had been consistently telling him no.

_How close did I come to fragging this up entirely?_

Spark in his throat, Ratchet tightened his arms around Drift and kissed the top of his helm. Drift had said he understood what courtship meant now–he’d talked to someone, that much was clear, and Ratchet owed that person big-time, but he’d learned his lesson about taking things for granted now so he wasn’t going to assume that they’d explained things properly. That was his job, anyway, and this time he was going to make damn sure he left no room for misinterpretation.

“I’m sorry, sweetspark,” he murmured against Drift’s helm. “That’s my fault for not being clear. A courtship means a relationship that might end in a conjunx declaration somewhere down the line, if we both decide that’s what we want. When I said that you didn’t need to do anything, what I should’ve said is that there’s no need for you to reciprocate in any way. You are under no obligation to do  _anything_ for me in return for the gifts, or for our dates. Spending time with you _is_ my reward, all right? When I asked to court you, what that means is I want us to take the time to really get to know each other on a level deeper than friendship or interfacing,” he said, trying to be as clear as possible this time. He went on, choosing his next words with the utmost care. “Not interfacing yet doesn’t mean I don’t want you, sweetspark. Getting physical too soon can be distracting. It’s easy to overlook problems when your frame is running hot. And I want you to know that I can enjoy being with you outside the berth, that I’m not just doing this because you’re the most amazing lover I’ve ever had.”

He added that last bit deliberately, and when the speedster’s EM field bloomed in a wave of surprised pride, Ratchet smiled. It was true, after all, and Drift deserved to know that he’d rocked his world down to its foundations. He deserved to know that this wasn’t easy for Ratchet to do, and that even so, Ratchet thought he was worth the effort.

“I could say the same about you,” Drift said softly, still holding him tight. “Even though it was during your stupor and you couldn’t really… no one’s ever made me feel the way you do.” And now the wash of proud happiness in their mingled fields came from Ratchet. Drift nuzzled his shoulder. “How long do we have to wait?” he asked, and while his tone was hesitant, the tension of his EM projections told the medic just how much the answer meant to him.

Ratchet wished Drift would look at him. Then again, maybe it would be easier to say what he needed to say without the distraction of those beautiful optics, and after the revelation he’d just had, he didn’t want to get it wrong again. “I can’t tell you that, not exactly. I would prefer we establish a sound foundation first but I’ll be honest, Drift, you’re really hard to resist.” Drift laughed softly against his shoulder and Ratchet kissed his helm again. “Seriously, though, the whole point of courting you is to see if we fit as well together outside the berth as we did in it. If you still want me to, now that I’ve hopefully done a better job of explaining,” he said, and they were both running late now but this was one thing he wanted to be absolutely certain about.

“If I  _want_ you to?” Drift finally lifted his head from Ratchet’s shoulder and gave him a brilliant smile. It kicked the air from the medic’s vents.  _Frag,_  he was gorgeous. “Primus yes, I want you to. I won’t pretend I won’t miss ‘facing with you, but now that I know why, I can wait for you to be ready. And I’m going to court you back,” Drift added, and Ratchet recovered enough to chuckle.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” he said, a little lightheaded with relief, but he couldn’t bring himself to outright refuse. Not when faced with a smile like that.

“Don’t care,” Drift said firmly, still smiling. “But you’re going to have to teach me how. Are you up for that?”

“Definitely,” Ratchet replied, and duty shifts be damned, he bent and kissed those smiling lips and he didn’t make it quick. It started off with the intention of reassuring the swordsmech that Ratchet did indeed want him, but it didn’t take long for the kiss to catch fire and become its own reward. Drift sighed happily and pressed closer, and Ratchet thought that kissing Drift should be added to the list of addictive activities because he couldn’t get enough of it.

Drift was the one to pull away. “That’s how I want to start my day,” he whispered, cupping Ratchet’s cheek and rubbing his thumb over the medic’s lower lip. “I’ve gotta go, I’m late. See you tonight?”

Ratchet caught his thumb between his denta and flicked his glossa over the captive digit before releasing it. Drift shivered quite satisfactorily in his arms. “Yes. The race, right? And after, we’ll talk more,” he added, because he didn’t want any other potential disasters brewing. Drift nodded and Ratchet made himself release him. “Now go on, get to work before Ultra Magnus starts looking for you. I’ll see you later.”

Drift leaned in and stole one more quick kiss. “See you,” he said, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song's short enough that I'm not going to link it, I'll just paste the lyrics
> 
> Led Zeppelin "Communication Breakdown"
> 
> Hey, girl, stop what you're doin'!  
> Hey, girl, you'll drive me to ruin.  
> I don't know what it is that I like about you, but I like it a lot.  
> Won't let me hold you, Let me feel your lovin' charms. 
> 
> Communication Breakdown, It's always the same,  
> I'm having a nervous breakdown, Drive me insane! 
> 
> Hey, girl, I got something I think you ought to know.  
> Hey, babe, I wanna tell you that I love you so.  
> I wanna hold you in my arms, yeah!  
> I'm never gonna let you go, 'Cause I like your charms.


	19. Be Your Everything

Ratchet smiled slightly as he waited for his final patient to come in, already anticipating getting off his shift. He and Drift planned to meet up after their duty shifts and go explore the small planet where the  _Lost Light_ had stopped to buy new supplies. The trading settlement wasn’t a large one and the indigenous species didn’t seem to have much of a concept of night-life, but Ratchet was still looking forward to it. He kept trying to plan proper dates with Drift but there was only so much variety available on a ship, even one as large as the  _Lost Light_. The prospect of treating his courtmate to something new was an attractive one.

And Ratchet really wanted to do something special for Drift. He wasn’t the type to celebrate every little relationship milestone, but today marked one month since that early morning conversation in his quarters and that felt significant to him. It had been a wake-up call for Ratchet, and it had brought about a turning point he hadn’t realized they’d needed.

It had taken time, but slowly Drift had become more relaxed and open about talking to Ratchet when he did have concerns, and that trust meant a lot to him. For his part, now that Ratchet understood just how much Drift equated physical affection with emotional connection, he’d stopped holding back quite so much on that side of things. His couch had seen several more scorching make-outs, but it was more than that. He’d long since outgrown the public displays of affection of his Party Ambulance days, but after seeing how delighted Drift had been by something as simple as holding his hand in the corridor, Ratchet had been actively trying to change that. He never wanted Drift to feel like he was the medic’s dirty secret, a position he was certain Drift was more than familiar with. Even small things like a kiss on the cheek in the observation lounge or dancing with him in Swerve’s were enough to make Drift glow with happiness for hours.

But while they’d been dating long enough now that most of the crew were aware of it, that didn’t mean that they actually managed to successfully complete many  _dates_. One or the other of them were always being called away to deal with some emergency or last-minute crisis. It made the time they did get to spend together more precious, but Ratchet suspected he wasn’t the only one getting frustrated by having to make do with stolen hours here and there.

Tonight Ratchet was doing everything in his power to get out of the medbay on time for once and it looked like he was actually going to accomplish it right up until ten minutes before the end of his shift. He had almost finished his last appointment, a regular maintenance checkup on Blaster, when he noticed a few hairline cracks around one of his transformation seams. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would make the mech keel over on the spot, but it triggered him to run a deeper scan. That scan came back positive for system-wide metal fatigue. Blaster wasn't in the final stages of starvation so that could only mean a malfunctioning T-cog, and that  _was_  serious enough to justify an immediate repair.

Ratchet’s spark sank as he realized he was going to have to cancel his plans with Drift yet again, and with almost no notice, too. T-cog surgeries were two-medic procedures, and while Lancet was already here and ready to take over from Ratchet, he would have to stay available to handle any other needs that came up while he and First Aid were in surgery. And Ratchet couldn’t foist it off on Ambulon because he was already down on the planet, picking up medical supplies. Even if Ratchet could call him back, what Ambulon was doing was vitally important. They were out of damn near everything. Restocking their medical supplies outweighed Ratchet getting to have an uninterrupted date night.

There was no help for it–he had to do this procedure with First Aid himself.

Ratchet commed Drift. The swordsmech didn’t answer, so he left an apologetic message saying that he wouldn’t be able to go planetside with him after all as he rolled the still-protesting communications specialist into the surgical suite.

Drift didn’t reply.

That nagged at Ratchet as he scrubbed in while First Aid readied Blaster for surgery. The hit-and-miss nature of their dates was something they were both having to learn to accept. Ratchet couldn’t help his unpredictable schedule, and so far Drift had seemed to understand just as Ratchet hadn’t held it against Drift when he’d had to call things off, but his silence now was uncharacteristic and worrisome.

Ratchet’s hands stilled beneath the sterilizing spray as he realized that this was the third time in a row he’d canceled on Drift, and that was just  _this week_  alone.

Guilt nagged at him as he remembered how excited Drift had been to get off the ship for a while and explore. Ratchet couldn’t blame him for being disappointed, but… what if it was more than just disappointment making Drift not answer?

What if Drift thought Ratchet kept canceling because he was hinting that he no longer wanted to court him?

What if Drift thought he wasn’t enough of a priority in Ratchet’s life?

What if Drift lost patience with always being pushed aside for Ratchet’s work and called it off himself?

The thought was enough to make Ratchet groan out loud. He mentally replayed the message he’d left for Drift while First Aid prepped Blaster for surgery, analyzing every word to make sure he’d fully expressed how much he would rather be with Drift right now than doing this.

… no, dammit, it wasn’t good enough. Ratchet left Drift a second message as he scrubbed in, and this time he made sure to say outright that he missed spending time together and would much rather be going to the planet with him than doing this now. He apologized for being so busy over the last few days and promised to make it up to him, too, even though he wasn’t sure how he was going to do that. Gifts were easy but what Drift needed from him was  _time,_  and that was what he was having so much trouble giving him lately.

First Aid signaled him that they were ready to begin and he ended the message, well aware that he’d been coming very close to babbling but taking a little comfort that this time there was no way Drift could misinterpret his meaning. Hoping that tonight hadn’t been one cancelation too many, Ratchet forced his personal life from his mind and turned off his comms so he could concentrate on the procedure.

He was already thinking of how he could make things up to Drift when he finally got out of the unexpectedly complicated surgery three hours later, but the first thing he saw when he and First Aid left the operating room was Drift himself. The beautiful speedster was perched atop one of the slabs, chatting with Lancet and smiling like Ratchet hadn’t just stood him up for the third time in a row. Ratchet must’ve made some kind of startled noise because Drift broke off in the middle of his sentence to look over at him. “Hey, there he is,” Drift said with a smile, jumping off the berth with that lithe grace that never failed to make Ratchet’s spark stutter in his chest.

Even more than that, though, Ratchet couldn’t tear his gaze away from the way Drift’s smile warmed and his optics softened at the sight of him– _him,_  just a boxy old ambulance, but this gorgeous speedster looked at him like he was the most beautiful mech ever sparked.

But the best part was that Drift looked at Ratchet like he was happy to see him, not angry. “Drift,” Ratchet said in surprise, then reset his vocalizer when it came out a bit hoarse with the force of his relief. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were here. Have you been waiting all this time?”

“Yes,” Drift said cheerfully. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of our plans being wrecked. That’s why we’re rescheduling for right now. You’re coming with me–no, don’t say anything, you don’t get a vote. First Aid, don’t you dare call him again tonight, got it?”

“I suppose we can live without him for a few hours. I mean, since you  _really_  need him,” First Aid teased, and even with that face-shield and visor hiding any hint of an expression, Ratchet could just sense his slag-eating grin.

He rolled his optics. His medical team had been absolutely shameless in their glee about Ratchet’s decision to court the speedster after their heats. Between First Aid, Ambulon, and Lancet all “casually”mentioningDrift at every opportunity and constantly reminding him how attractive the swordsmech was and how attentive he’d been during Ratchet’s stupor  _(like these were things Ratchet could possibly forget)_ , and commenting on what a wonderful conjunx he would make for some lucky mech  _(again, did they really think he somehow hadn’t noticed this?)_ , Ratchet sometimes felt like he was working at a dating service, not in a medbay.

And Primus help him on the rare but wonderful occasions when Drift came to see him at midday to make sure he took a break to fuel. Ratchet was always glad to see him, even if he did get mercilessly teased after the swordsmech left. It was worth it to spend a little time alone in his office with Drift, to talk to him and just enjoy his company… and on one memorable occasion, to forget about the fuel entirely in favor of pulling Drift onto his lap and kissing him until he was a trembling, whimpering, gorgeous mess of wanton speedster in his arms. He’d moved to nibbling and suckling at one of the swordsmech’s sensor-packed audial flares and stroking teasing caresses over the other when Drift stunned both of them by overloading right there on Ratchet’s lap without even opening his panel. The vivid wash of shocked pleasure through his field had very nearly tipped Ratchet over with him but he’d fought it off in favor of watching his courtmate shudder with ecstasy. “Oh, you’re gorgeous like this,” he’d groaned in Drift’s audial as his pleasure crested. “I could watch you overload all day long.”

Drift moaned and shivered but somehow managed to reply. “You can see it again any time you want,” he gasped, and Ratchet had chuckled and decided that  _any time he wanted_ meant  _right now_. Oh yeah, that little interlude had been glorious indeed, and he’d wrung two more tactile overloads out of the speedster before a ping to his comms reminded him that he was still on duty and even though he was technically on a refueling break, they really shouldn’t be doing this right now. But damn it, Drift’s pleasure was so beautiful that it was hard to resist. And despite the strut-deep ache of unrelieved arousal in his own array and the knowing grins that filled the medbay after a still-dazed Drift left on visibly unsteady legs that gave away exactly what they’d been doing in the CMO’s office, Ratchet didn’t regret an instant of it.

After that, the three other medics had barely left Ratchet alone about Drift. The more he grumbled and glared and tried not to blush, the more delighted his team became. The more he tried to change the subject, the more they kept talking about Drift, until Ratchet had threatened to make him an off-limits topic entirely. They’d backed off a bit after that, but  _fluster the unflappable CMO_  was their new favorite game to play when the medbay was quiet and Ratchet fragging hated that it  _worked_. It was exasperating that they could ruffle his metaphorical feathers so easily.

Actually, it was downright odd. Ratchet had never been the type to get embarrassed about anything, really, but especially not a lover. In fact, he’d always had a reputation for being rather shameless about his berthroom exploits. He supposed it was due to lingering embarrassment from the highly public way his relationship with Drift had started. He wasn’t ashamed of Drift–far from it–but he didn’t much care for being teased.

Drift seemed to feel exactly the same way if the look he shot First Aid was any indication. “I’m serious, Aid. Ratchet’s been on duty for sixty of the last eighty hours. He’s off duty for the next two cycles, and that’s coming from Ultra Magnus, not me,” he added, turning that glare on Ratchet when he opened his mouth to protest.

Glares had never been enough to silence Ratchet. “I’m still Chief Medical Officer, last time I checked. So just why is Ultra Magnus concerning himself with the medbay duty schedule?” he demanded, planting his hands on his hips.

“Came up during the command meeting,” Drift said innocently, but Ratchet could read him like a book and the brightness of his optics gave him away.

Ratchet pursed his lips and did his best not to smile. Drift persisted in looking out for him, unnecessary as it was, and he hadn’t yet been able to persuade him that he could take care of himself just fine. “Just  _happened_  to come up, huh,” he grumbled, raising both hands to make air-quotes for extra sarcasm.

Drift just smiled, the cheeky little fragger. “Point is, you’re way over crew guidelines for duty shifts and rest breaks, Ratchet. You’re getting some time off whether you want it or not. That’s half the reason I’m here, to formally evict you from your medbay for the night. It was me or Ultra Magnus,” he added when Ratchet started to protest again. “I can call him in if you’d rather. I mean, I thought you’d prefer to leave with me, but you can certainly try arguing your way around the Duly Appointed Enforcer Of Every Rule Ever instead if you like. Just say the word.”

Ratchet snorted. He held Drift’s gaze for a long moment before finally holding up a single finger. “One time,” he growled in a warning he was fairly certain the swordsmech wasn’t going to heed. “You get away with this _one_ time. Got it?”

Drift grinned at his victory. Then his face went stern and he glanced over his shoulder at First Aid. “And you?”

Ratchet shook his head as First Aid sketched a very sloppy salute that would’ve given the aforementioned SIC fits. “Yes sir, we read you loud and clear, sir. Ratchet’s all yours for the night,” he said smartly while Lancet giggled at the implication.

Drift just nodded in satisfaction. “Good,” he said, then turned that same stern gaze on Ratchet. “Now say goodnight, Ratchet, because  _you’re_  coming with me.”

Ratchet chuckled as Drift grabbed him by the hand and pulled him out of the medbay before he could do more than wave to his medical team. “You act like you’re expecting resistance,” he said when the medbay doors slid closed behind them. “Trust me, I’m quite happy for you to kidnap me from those lunatics.”

Drift sent him a dazzling grin over his shoulder as he tugged him down the corridor. “Good. Be advised that I might not give you back.”

“Hmm… no, still not seeing a downside,” Ratchet replied, and Drift laughed.

They ended up not at the shuttle-bay, though, but at the door to Drift’s hab suite. Ratchet was a bit surprised at that. He hadn’t been back here since… well, since that night when Drift had kissed the processor right out of his head and he’d almost forgotten every single one of the reasons he’d decided to wait to make love to Drift again. They’d never actually said so, but it seemed like they’d agreed that it was best not to be in Drift’s quarters together until Ratchet was ready to ‘face again. The memories in these rooms were too immensely tempting.

Drift must’ve felt Ratchet’s reaction in his field because he glanced up at him without opening the door. “No pressure, okay? I’m not trying to push you to do anything you don’t want to. I just want to minimize any potential interruptions,” he explained, his gaze showing a touch of nervousness for the first time. “Your quarters are entirely too close to the medbay and I don’t want anything pulling you back in there tonight.”

“What about the planet?” Ratchet asked, because although he was dead on his pedes, he knew that Drift had really been looking forward to getting off the ship for a little while. The swordsmech had been on duty during their last resupply stop and the one before that had too many locals who might have unpleasant memories of Deadlock for him to safely leave the ship. He hadn’t had a chance to give his altmode a really good run in quite a while, and Ratchet knew speedsters needed that outlet.

“It’ll still be there tomorrow, and I happen to know that you have the day off,” Drift replied with a smile, but his gaze was still cautious. “If you still want to go, Ratch, we can go. Or we can do anything else you want. I don’t want you to feel bad about saying so if this isn’t all right.”

Ratchet smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “It’s very all right,” he reassured the swordsmech, loving that Drift felt comfortable enough now to let him see his uncertainty instead of trying to hide it behind a veil of confidence. “I’m actually exhausted. A quiet night in sounds perfect to me, and let’s be honest, your hab suite is nicer than mine,” he added with a wink. “I just hope I don’t bore you.”

Drift’s field betrayed his relief. “You are not obligated to entertain me,” he said, finally opening the door and leading Ratchet inside. His fingers were gentle around the medic’s, bringing back memories of the first time Drift had brought him to his quarters. “You don’t even have to stay awake if you’re tired. I won’t be offended if you fall asleep on me. I don’t care what we do as long as I can be close to you for a little while.”

And damned if that wasn’t one of the sweetest things anyone had ever said to Ratchet. As soon as the door closed behind them, he pulled Drift into his arms and rested his chevron against the speedster’s forehelm crest, closing his optics and savoring the way Drift relaxed into his embrace. Drift cupped his face in both hands and his field glowed with contentment. They stood like that for several moments, just holding each other, before Ratchet sighed. “You had me worried,” he whispered, arms tightening around his courtmate. “I thought…”

“You thought what?” Drift prompted, caressing his face with gentle fingertips when Ratchet’s voice trailed away.

He held him closer. Ever since Drift had admitted that he hadn’t understood what  _courtship_  meant, Ratchet had been very careful to communicate clearly. Still, that didn’t mean it was easy for him to put his feelings into words, especially when it came to admitting his own doubts or fears.

But Drift was important enough for him to make that effort. “I thought you were angry with me for canceling our date because of the surgery,” he said quietly, but that wasn’t entirely accurate so he started over. “No, it was more than that. I was worried you might think you’re not a priority to me. I don’t ever want you to think that, Drift. I don’t want to lose you because my work takes up so much of my time.”

Drift pulled back and looked at him, clearly stunned. “Ratchet, I’ve known you a long time and your work has  _always_ been like this. Why would I be angry with you for that now? I happen to  _admire_ your dedication,” he said, and his field backed up the puzzlement in his gaze.

Ratchet couldn’t hide his surprise. “Then why didn’t you–” he started, but Drift was already answering.

“I didn’t answer your comms because I was stuck in a stupid meeting with Ultra Magnus and Perceptor down by the quantum engines. Those things frag up communications something awful,” he said, and Ratchet groaned. He knew that was true. “I couldn’t get a call out to let you know I wasn’t going to make it to the shuttle bay on time. I didn’t even get the notifications that I’d missed your calls until an hour after we were supposed to meet up, and the messages you left were corrupted with interference. I tried to comm you as soon as we got away from the engines but when you didn’t answer me, I thought  _you_ were furious with  _me_  for standing you up without a word. That’s why I made a beeline for the medbay the instant I could get away, and I’ve never been so glad in my life to find out that you were stuck in surgery with your comms off. I thought you were ignoring me because you were pissed off.”

Ratchet stared for a moment before laughing with pure relief at the absurdity of it. “If we miss a date like this again, I promise never to assume you’ve stood me up if you’ll promise the same for me,” he said, resting his helm against Drift’s again.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Drift agreed, and then he tilted his head and brushed his lips over Ratchet’s.

It was a perfect moment. Drift kissed him slowly, so very gently, and Ratchet sighed and surrendered to his lead. In that moment, lightheaded with relief and amusement at this comedy of errors, he would’ve given the swordsmech anything.

But Drift asked him for nothing at all. “I know you’re tired,” the speedster said when he finally pulled away and smiled at him. “Come sit down and let me get you some fuel. You don’t have to do anything for the rest of the night but relax and let me take care of you.”

And while Ratchet still found it hard to believe that Drift enjoyed fussing over him so much, he let the speedster lead him over to the couch and push him down onto the cushions instead of protesting. Drift nudged a pillow behind his back as though sensing the ache there, then pushed a footstool over and lifted Ratchet’s pedes up onto it. The elevation took the strain off his sore spinal strut and he groaned with relief. Drift’s field thrummed with happiness at the sound and he grabbed another cushion and tucked it behind the medic’s neck. Ratchet submitted to all of it with an amused smile. “Mmm, that’s nice. Better watch out or I’ll get used to getting spoiled like this,” he teased as Drift arranged him exactly how he wanted him.

Drift grinned. “Please do. I’ll spoil you rotten if you’ll let me,” he said, and leaned in to steal a kiss. “Comfy?” Ratchet nodded and Drift rewarded him with another kiss, longer this time. “Stay put,” he murmured against his lips. “I’ll be right back and I want you to stay just like this.”

The swordsmech left him there and crossed the large central room to his swordrack. He put his swords away and lit a stick of incense on the small altar in front of the rack, then pressed his palms together and bowed. The scent was mild, soothing, and Ratchet recognized it. That incense had been the very first courtship gift he’d given Drift, a blend he’d asked Perceptor to create specially after he’d spent some time researching scents to promote relaxation during meditation. The medic smiled at the evidence that Drift liked it enough to use it and watched as his courtmate went to the energon dispenser. He came back with a pair of cubes in his hands and gave one to Ratchet before snuggling up right beside him on the couch.

Then Drift surprised him by pulling a wide, flat box from his subspace and pushing it into the medic’s free hand. “For you. Open it.”

“You don’t need to give me anything but your time,” Ratchet said as he had a dozen times before but he took the box anyway. Despite how many times he’d reassured Drift that he didn’t have to reciprocate the courtship gifts, the swordsmech still managed to sneak a few in here and there. Ratchet still had the bottle of insanely expensive engex Drift had given him tucked away for a special occasion, although he wasn’t sure how any occasion could be special enough to justify spending  _that much_ on a single bottle of high-grade. Drift’s explanation of, “You like good engex and this is supposed to be the best there is,” hadn’t made him feel any less overwhelmed by it.

“Don’t get too excited, you don’t know what it is yet,” Drift replied, waving his protest away, but the eager light in his optics belied his words. “Go on, open it.”

And after tonight’s misunderstanding, Ratchet’s resistance to Drift was nonexistent. He opened the box to find a standard datapad inside. He picked it up and turned it over, but there were no identifying marks on it and he gave Drift a questioning look. “It’s loaded with all the episodes of an Earth show I think you’ll like. It’s called  _House_. I thought we could watch it together,” Drift explained as he turned the datapad on to show the contents. “It’s about a very short-tempered human medic who terrorizes his team,” he added with a cheeky grin, and Ratchet snorted as the opening credits played.

Ratchet finished his energon by the end of the first episode and Drift dispersed the cube but didn’t seem eager for him to leave, and he wasn’t in any hurry, either. The longer he stayed, the more he relaxed. They watched several more episodes in a row, and Drift was right–Ratchet  _did_ like the main character’s dry, biting humor and take-no-prisoners attitude, as well as his intuitive medical brilliance.

It was getting late now but he deliberately refused to keep track of the time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so warm, so happy, so completely safe and content, and he didn’t care if they went to the planet tomorrow having not recharged at all if it meant he could just stay in this moment for a little longer.

Most of all, he liked the way Drift felt cuddled up in his lap while the show played. Somehow Ratchet had ended up half-lying in a comfortable sprawl across the couch, leaning against the arm with one pede on the floor and his other leg propped up against the back. Drift lay between his thighs, his back to Ratchet’s chest while the medic held the datapad propped atop his knee where they could both see it. Drift had captured the medic’s other hand and was gently massaging it in both of his. It brought back memories of that glorious massage during Ratchet’s stupor, the one Drift had been so shocked to learn that he remembered.

And that brought back the memory of those words whispered into his palms.

Drift hadn’t said it again in all this time, not once, and Ratchet hadn’t pressed him to. It didn’t seem fair when he couldn’t say it back. But he didn’t need to hear the words to know that Drift’s feelings hadn’t changed. His love was written in the warmth of his optics and the way he smiled at Ratchet when no one else was around. It was there in the way he’d insisted Ratchet take some time off. He’d tasted it in that impossibly sweet kiss, and he’d seen it in the speedster’s excitement to give him this gift that wasn’t about money, but about giving Ratchet exactly what he wanted most–time with Drift. It was clear in the gentleness of his touch and the contentment in his field where it mingled with Ratchet’s now. The medic envied Drift his surety when he himself was still trying to figure out what love felt like.

_… warmth… pleasure… contentment… trust … happiness… safety… peace…_

Ratchet’s vents stalled and his frame went from utter relaxation to stiffness in an instant. Was this…

“Ratchet? You all right?” Drift murmured, shifting in his lap so he could look up at him. Ratchet stared into the swordsmech’s face and tried to analyze the way his spark flared at the sight of him, to quantify that mixture of desire and protectiveness and admiration and awe, but whatever Drift saw on his face made him frown. He went up on his knees and gripped Ratchet’s shoulders tight. “Ratchet, talk to me. Did someone comm you? What’s wrong?” he asked urgently.

Ratchet dropped the datapad onto the cushions and reached out to trace Drift’s jaw, noting with no real surprise that his fingers were trembling.  _This is all I need,_  he thought, and that simply, he knew. “Nothing’s wrong. I just… it was obvious,” he whispered. “All this time, and it was  _obvious_.”

Drift had gone still. “What was obvious?” he asked, but the mixture of caution and longing in his field showed Ratchet that he at least suspected what Ratchet was talking about, even if he was trying hard not to get his hopes up in case he was wrong.

“It feels like  _this_ ,” Ratchet said, starting to smile now. He let his own field flow out to surround Drift, no filters, no hesitation, hiding nothing. “I thought it would be something new, but it’s been here this whole time.”

Drift vented out in a rush like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Oh Primus,” he whispered, his optics enormous as their fields meshed fully and Ratchet’s emotions washed over him. “Say it, Ratchet, if you mean what I think you mean,  _please_  say it.”

“I love you,” Ratchet said, his smile growing. How could he ever have mistaken this feeling for anything else? In retrospect it seemed absolutely stupid.

“Oh Primus,” Drift whispered again, hands tightening on Ratchet’s shoulders. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Ratchet replied, wishing he had Rewind’s ability to video record the amazement on Drift’s face. He saved a still-frame instead and said, “I love you,” again just to savor the way Drift reacted to the words.

The swordsmech shuddered, his entire body shaking now. “Say it one more time? Please?”

Ratchet chuckled softly. He’d made Drift wait long enough to hear him say these words–he wouldn’t begrudge him wanting to hear it repeated a few times. “I love you, Drift. I love you. I love you,” he said, punctuating the words with an affectionate, playful nudge from his field. “Now what do I have to do to get you to say it back to me?”

Drift’s face split into the most joyful smile Ratchet had ever seen. “Oh yes Ratchet I love you, I love you  _so damn much_ ,” he said all in a rush as though the words had been trying to escape for weeks and he’d barely held them back until now.

Ratchet was fairly sure that his own smile had bypassed joyful and was bordering on ridiculously besotted, but he was absolutely positive that he didn’t care. “Then maybe you’d better come here and kiss me.”

An instant later, Drift’s frame was pressed to his from shoulder to knee as he rained kisses all over Ratchet’s face, from his chevron to his chin and everything in between, and between every kiss he whispered  _I love you_  again and again. Ratchet laughed, trying and failing to catch Drift’s lips with his own. “Hold  _still,_  you,” he finally growled, grabbing Drift by one audial flare and kissing him before he could get away. Drift laughed into his mouth and Ratchet couldn’t hold back a moan as heat roared through his frame.

Drift shivered at the sound and broke the kiss to lick a hot stripe down Ratchet’s throat. “Please tell me you’re going to stay with me tonight,” he murmured against his plating, punctuating it with a sharp nip that had Ratchet’s fans kicking on hard before he pulled back to stare down at him. “Tell me you’re going to let me take you to my berth and worship every inch of you. Tell me you’re going to let me make love to you without any damn heat coding yanking our strings. Ratchet, oh, Ratchet, I know you wanted to do the whole courtship thing right but I swear I’m  _courted_  already, I’m  _yours_ , I’ve  _always_  been yours. But I promised I wasn’t going to push you tonight, so if you don’t want me as much as I want you, I need you to stop me right now.”

Ratchet groaned deep in his chest as Drift’s words washed over him. How was he supposed to resist giving Drift anything when he said things like that? “I want you that much and more,” he whispered, reaching up and cupping the speedster’s face in his hands. “So unless you kick me out, I’m staying.”

Elation filled his field. “Oh thank Primus for that,” Drift murmured fervently, one hand sliding up Ratchet’s arm and curling tight around his wrist as he sat up and straddled the medic’s waist. He gave him a saucy wink as his aft settled atop Ratchet’s hips. “And I’d never kick you out of my berth. Might chain you to it, but I’ll never kick you out.”

Whatever reply Ratchet might’ve made to that was forgotten as Drift proved that his prior attempts at seduction had only been playing. He showed that he knew  _exactly_  how to dismantle Ratchet’s resistance by lifting his hand and sucking the medic’s index finger right into his mouth.  “ _Drift!_ ” Ratchet gasped, every bit of his processor suddenly focused on the wet caress of the speedster’s glossa on his very sensitive digit. His hips involuntarily pressed up between Drift’s thighs and it was all he could do to keep his panel from instantly popping open. Ratchet groaned out loud when Drift let his finger slide almost all the way free before engulfing it between his lips and teasing it with that sweet glossa again.

Drift’s glossa fluttered against the pad of his finger and his fans roared, already hitting close to full speed. He sucked and Ratchet’s back arched off the couch. He couldn’t keep from crying Drift’s name again but the word got lost in static as he grabbed his lover’s thigh with his free hand and held on tight.  _Frag_ , it felt good, it felt so  _damn_  good and Ratchet knew he should turn down the sensitivity on his hands or risk overloading before he even got his panel open, but he couldn’t force himself to do it. How could he make himself deliberately miss out on something that felt like  _this?_

Drift watched every last bit of it cross his face, his optics fiercely intent, and then he smiled around Ratchet’s finger and hummed his delight. Ratchet cried out and his optics almost rolled back in his head at the deep vibrations lighting up densely packed sensor bundles and specialized data pathways. Drift’s field smoldered with pleasure at his reaction. “Mmm, I almost forgot how much you like this,” he purred, rubbing slow circles in his palm with his thumbs. That massage that had felt so relaxing and soothing before suddenly felt anything  _but_  relaxing, and Drift’s field went smug in a way that said he knew exactly what he was doing. He nibbled his way across the medic’s fingertips, thumb to smallest finger, then took his middle two fingers deep into his mouth, suckled his way off, did it again in an erotic imitation that set Ratchet’s spike throbbing behind its panel.

Not to mention that gazing up at Drift while the speedster suckled at his fingers like this brought back some seriously mind-blowing memories of his heat, and all the while Drift flicked his glossa in and out between his fingers, quick and hot and so sexy Ratchet could hardly stand it.

When Drift finally pulled back enough to speak, Ratchet moaned with loss. The speedster grinned down at him, still rubbing his fingers and palm in a way that sent chills down his spinal strut. “Oh, you should see yourself right now,” Drift whispered against the delicate plating of his inner wrist, effortlessly riding the involuntary rocking of Ratchet’s hips beneath him. “I wonder, could I make you overload from this alone?”

“If you don’t ease up a bit you’re gonna find out,” Ratchet warned in a voice like gravel, and Drift’s optics took on a predator’s intense focus.

“You know, I think I’d like to see that,” he murmured, and then he started sucking Ratchet’s fingers in earnest.

This time Ratchet couldn’t help it–the sensation was too intense, felt too damn amazing, and his panel snapped open with embarrassing speed. Chagrin warred with ecstasy in his field–

–but only for an instant, because Drift’s own panel clicked back less than a second later. Ratchet’s fully-pressurized spike had barely emerged before the speedster’s slick valve was sliding against him and Ratchet had barely touched him at all so  _how_ was he already _this_   _damn wet?_  Drift rubbed against him and moaned around the medic’s fingers and Ratchet had to bite his cheek hard to ground himself as pleasure pounded through his entire frame.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been dying to know what you would feel like inside me?” Drift murmured into Ratchet’s palm, his gorgeous body trembling as he rocked against Ratchet’s spike, his hot valve spreading lubricants all along the underside. The rhythmic movement of his frame was almost hypnotically sensual and Ratchet’s mouth went dry at the sight. Drift rubbed over him again even though everything in his field screamed how badly he wanted to sink down on the medic’s spike and ride, and all the while he never stopped swirling his glossa in slow, lapping circles over his palm and inner wrist. Ratchet was drowning in the most glorious sensory overload imaginable. “Please, Ratchet, can I finally find out?”

Ratchet swallowed hard and still couldn’t keep from whimpering. This was moving so fast and he knew he should slow down, should savor this, but Vector Sigma, he wanted Drift  _so fragging much_ and Drift was so wet he was  _dripping_  and dammit, they could go slow next time. Not trusting his own voice, Ratchet took hold of Drift’s hip with his free hand and changed the angle, guiding him up and forward so their arrays aligned perfectly at last.

The head of his spike sank into that wet heat and they both cried out. “Oh  _yesss,_ ” Drift groaned, the medic’s fingers momentarily forgotten as he threw his head back and rocked his hips in slow circles, working Ratchet’s thick spike deeper with every movement.

It was the most erotic thing the medic had ever seen in his life, and it was all he could do to keep from thrusting up into the speedster or pulling him down harder. The sounds Drift made as he slowly took Ratchet’s full length didn’t help with his restraint at all, gorgeous little gasps and moans and even though he was clearly trying to hold them back, the sight of him biting his lip with his optics closed in ecstasy only added to the allure of it all.

When Drift finally managed to take his entire spike, he went perfectly still, venting fast, very nearly panting as he held Ratchet’s hand tight in both of his. “Drift?” Ratchet asked, the name emerging from his vocalizer hoarse and staticked. Pleasure sizzled through his frame and sparks danced between them and he was shaking with the effort of not moving because Drift was  _tight_ , so fragging tight around his spike and it felt beyond incredible but damn it, Ratchet had enough experience to  _know better_  than this. No matter how much Drift had clearly wanted it, he knew damn well his spike was large for his frame type and he hadn’t prepared Drift at all, hadn’t even used a single finger to make sure he was ready, and the  _last_  thing Ratchet wanted to do was hurt his lover–

“Oh Primus, Ratchet, you feel  _amazing,_ ” Drift moaned before Ratchet could continue castigating himself. He rolled his hips in a slow circle and Ratchet had to bite his glossa hard to keep from overloading from the sight of the ecstasy on his lover’s face and the feel of his dripping wet valve caressing his spike all the way from base to tip with the sensuous movement, but even better was the reassurance that he hadn’t hurt him. Drift bit his lip and rolled his hips again, whimpering as the motion rubbed his anterior node against Ratchet’s spike housing. “Oh  _slag_  you feel good, I may not– _ohhh Primus–_ may not last long, I’ll try but  _you feel_   _so damn_   _good_ ,” he groaned, and the whole time he didn’t stop rolling his hips.

Ratchet didn’t want him to. The swordsmech’s internal nodes massaged his spike, his valve’s calipers gripping, releasing, gripping again in response to Drift’s movements, and he was  _so damned hot_ , tight and slick and fragging  _perfect_ and Ratchet was going to lose it, he was going to  _lose his mind._  “Slow next time,” Ratchet gasped in agreement, rocking in time with the next circle, barely thrusting at all but making sure he pressed up right at the apex of Drift’s roll to emphasize the pressure on his node.

It got an absolutely gorgeous reaction. Drift’s entire frame shuddered and he fell forward, bracing his hands on Ratchet’s chest for balance. “ _Oh-Primus-do-that-again_ ,” he said all in a rush, and when Ratchet did, he lost his words entirely in a shuddering whine of pleasure. The change of angle only made it better. “Oh Primus oh Ratchet oh _just like that_ please  _please–”_

It went very fast after that. It only took a few more of those rocking, rolling circles to send Drift over the edge into overload, and the sound of Drift crying out his name in ecstasy and the feel of his valve milking his spike sent Ratchet’s fans straight to redline. The electrical discharge of Drift’s overload flickered between their frames and Ratchet tried, oh he tried, but he couldn't hold on. But most of all, the glorious abandon on Drift's face, his joy and wonder as the pleasure took him over was too much for Ratchet and had him shouting with his own overload before Drift’s was even over. He gripped Drift’s hips tight and surged up into that rippling heat as Drift ground down. It wasn’t anything like Ratchet’s fantasies over the last few weeks when he’d imagined making Drift overload again and again before finally letting go and joining him, but his frame had other ideas.

And the brilliant smile that came over Drift’s face when Ratchet’s charge surged through his valve and sent him over again made it seem perfect anyway.

Drift collapsed onto his chest when the pleasure released them, both of them venting hard. “Sorry. Went too fast,” he whispered breathlessly after a minute, the words coming in short bursts of panting as his system shed heat in every way it could, but his field didn’t convey any disappointment. Instead, his EM projections were full of joy and blissful satisfaction. “Couldn’t resist. Felt too good. Wanted you too much.” Then he looked up and grinned. “Should warn you… that’s what you get… with a speedster.”

The medic laughed softly. “No complaints here,” Ratchet assured him, stroking Drift’s back and sides in long, sweeping strokes as his own fans sucked in cold air and blew it out again scalding-hot. “But I hope you’re not done yet, love. That just took the edge off. I’ll do better next time,” he promised, and he meant it. These weeks of waiting couldn't be satisfied by one overload, no matter how amazing, and his spike was still half-hard and ready for round two.

Drift chuckled, and Ratchet gasped at the feeling of his valve vibrating around his spike. “ _We’ll_  do better,” he corrected him. He sat up and smiled down at his lover, optics bright. “Shall we move this to the berth?”

Ratchet nodded immediately but stopped Drift when he started to get up. Instead he locked his arms around the speedster’s waist and stood up with him, keeping their hips together so his spike stayed buried inside him. Drift’s stunned gasp and the way his valve flexed and rippled with the movement went a long way to bringing his spike right back to full pressure again. Ratchet couldn’t keep from grinning at the astonished expression on his lover’s face as he started walking toward Drift’s berth. “You planning to chain me to it?” he asked, keeping his tone light and conversational as though every step wasn’t shifting Drift on his spike in the most delightful way imaginable.

Drift wasn’t anywhere near as restrained. He clung to Ratchet’s shoulders and clenched his legs around the medic’s waist, moaning with every step. Twice he tried to reply and both times Ratchet  _accidentally_  stepped a little harder so his spike slid a bit further out, then thrust back inside hard enough for his spike housing to press against Drift’s anterior node. The speedster already had sparks crackling between his armor and protoform by the time they reached his berth. “Anything you want,” he gasped as Ratchet laid him down. “Keep doing that and I’ll give you anything you want.”

Ratchet pressed his wrists to the berth above his head, making Drift arch beautifully beneath him, and smiled down at him. “I’ve got everything I want.” Drift stared up at him, optics wide and full of wonder. His lips parted, then closed again, and Ratchet kissed him as Drift’s field churned with what felt like a thousand emotions. “What is it, sweetspark? Tell me,” he whispered against his lips.

Drift cupped his face in his hands and held him close. “I never thought I would be grateful to that heat programming,” he said quietly. “But I am. I’m so damn grateful that it made you see me differently.”

“Oh, love.” Ratchet pulled back and met his optics, and somehow this felt more intimate than the fact that his spike was still buried deep inside his lover. “What happened during our heats didn’t make me see you  _any_  differently. It just finally made me admit it.”

And then Drift kissed him, and his valve tightened around the medic’s spike in a rippling wave, and everything else ceased to matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's over! *sniffle* I hope y'all enjoyed it as much as I did. Thank you to everyone who's read and left such kind reviews! And here are your lyrics--I swear I'm never doing the lyrics-chapter-title thing ever again EVER. 
> 
> http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/boyslikegirls/beyoureverything.html


	20. Don't Get Excited, It's Not Really a Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a chapter--it's exactly what the title says, just extra bits and pieces that didn't make it into the story but have been floating around in my head, so I thought I'd toss 'em at the page and share.
> 
> Edited to add: Because a few people have asked me, let me make it clear that people are completely welcome to use these heat headcanons in their own stories. If you do, all I ask is that you please not use them in noncon/dubcon, and please credit me appropriately. And I'd love it if you sent me a shout with a link on tumblr (I'm iopele there) cuz I'd love to see what you build with it! Also, if you're wondering about something I didn't mention or have questions, either leave it in a comment or send me a tumblr ask too cuz I adore talking about this stuff.

Random bits and pieces that didn’t make it into the story, and headcanon-y stuff too:

When Ratchet was going into heat in chapter 1, First Aid assigned Ambulon and Lancet to stand outside the medbay doors and not let anyone come in. They took turns taking any patients to another room and treating them there because Ratchet was obviously in no condition to attempt to treat anyone. And just to make sure it’s clear, there was nothing at all wrong with the equipment in the medbay–Ratchet just couldn’t brain how to use it right–and First Aid’s “mumbling nonsense” was him telling Ratchet “you’re going into heat, let me give you something for that” but the heat coding refused to let him understand the words because Ratchet had put it off for so long that there was no way he was getting out of it this time!

The heat coding is fully capable of overriding a mech’s conscious mind in all kinds of ways, most of them little, but some of them big. Things like not letting Ratchet understand First Aid’s warnings, and taking over to steer him to the shuttle bay instead of the medbay, etc.

Mecha can put off going into heat with the use of prescription prophylaxis treatments, and there are lots of different kinds (just like there are lots of different kinds of birth control pills, as an example). A medic will evaluate each mech individually and recommend the best one for them, but at the same time they warn them that the longer they put it off, the more intense their heat will be when it finally  _does_  hit. Also, since the heat cycle is such a powerful thing, the medications are pretty powerful to overrule it. That makes them even more dangerous in higher doses. Overdoses of heat prophylactic medications can shut off other pieces of coding, such as vital temperature fail-safes (leading to things like Drift’s overheating), or T-cog controls (which can cause uncontrollable transformations up to T-cog burnout), or impair proper energon flow protocols (making certain systems run too hard while others are starved of fuel), or result in permanent processor damage from rewriting or erasing memories. It can be seriously bad news.

In other words, Drift was really stupid/desperate to try this on his own. Way to go, Drift.

Heats can only be put off for so long no matter what form of prophylaxis is used, and switching to a different kind of prophylaxis doesn’t change that–mecha will reach a point called prophylaxis override, or prophylaxis exhaustion. At that point, no matter how much medication they’re given, it does no good. At some point, you  _will_  go into heat no matter what you do. (Drift and Ratchet are *both* at the prophylaxis-override point in this story.)

If a mech is already going into an unwanted heat but gets to a medic while they’re in the earliest stages (assuming they’re not already in prophylaxis exhaustion), it can sometimes still be headed off with a larger than usual dose of prophylaxis meds. This doesn’t always work and it’s also quite dangerous. A lot of medics won’t even attempt it because it  _is_  so dangerous. If the heat is not going away, there are other medications that can mitigate some of the symptoms (the irritability, body aches, nausea, etc). Other meds can lower the amount of pheromones released so there isn’t the kind of chain-reaction disaster Ratchet’s uncontrolled heat triggered throughout the  _Lost Light_. Basically, they are treatments that make a long-delayed heat more manageable and tolerable for all involved.

In other words, Ratchet really fragged everyone up in preventable ways. Way to go, Ratchet.

Different frame types tend to have roughly predictable heat cycles. Speedsters have a very fast cycle, maybe once every million years. Jets are even faster. Tanks, large trucks, and other kinds of heavy altmodes have a much slower cycle. Enormous mecha like Omega Supreme might have one heat in ten million years. No one knows about the heat cycles of cityformers like Metroplex–no one has documented a cityformer in heat, and they’re not telling. The smallest minicons might have a heat every few hundred thousand years. Medics generally have a much slower cycle because of the interaction between the medical protocols and the heat coding, but their frame type also plays a part–Ratchet as an ambulance has a much slower cycle than Pharma as a jet, for instance, but Pharma’s cycle is significantly slower than a mech like Powerglide.

The Prime does not have a heat cycle because of the Matrix. Primus wants his Primes to see every Cybertronian as their responsibility, every one of them as family, and not to prioritize any one mech over any other. No sparklings for the Prime. Heat pheromones likewise don’t affect the bearer of the Matrix, nor will a receptive mech be able to imprint on them. That doesn’t mean the Prime is necessarily asexual–they can and do interface for pleasure if they want to–they just aren’t subject to the heat cycle.

Asexual mecha like Ambulon are completely immune to heat pheromones and they don’t have the interfacing protocols or heat programming at all. Ambulon feels pretty damn lucky about this after his time with the Decepticons, and seeing what Drift and Ratchet went through only makes him happier that he never has to deal with all that nonsense!

Heats do not always end in a sparkling. If mecha want to increase their chances of creating a newspark, they will not only interface using the “sticky” array, they’ll merge their sparks. The more often this happens during a heat, the better the chances of a newspark being created, although it’s certainly not necessary to spark-merge to make a sparkling.

The heat coding will not let an unsuitable mate respond to a mech’s heat signals. For example, if two mecha are physically incompatible (for instance, a receptive minicon and a mech the size of Ultra Magnus), the heat coding won’t let it happen. Bonded mecha are immune to all but the strongest, most out-of-control heat signals from anyone but their conjunx. Mecha with advanced diseases or anything else that could cause harm to the receptive mech or a sparkling are automatically weeded out by the heat programming. It's more than just  _detect-pheromones-must-frag_. The coding is active and selective during the whole process. Its entire focus is on maximizing the chances of a viable newspark being created during a mech's fertile/receptive phase.

There are 2 ways to reset the heat cycle. A receptive heat is like Ratchet’s, where a mech goes into heat (becomes "fertile" for lack of a better term) and sends out those  _come-get-me-baby_  signals with pheromones and EM signals, and waits to be claimed by the best mate. The other way is to imprint on the receptive mech and spend their heat with them. Exposure to the pheromones and EM signals triggers all nearby unbonded mecha to fight for the right to claim the mech in heat, and again, the heat coding is perfectly capable of overriding mecha’s processors. When someone goes into heat, everyone goes  _crazy_  until that mech imprints on a mate.

Going into heat is generally considered to be potentially inconvenient, but pretty damn fun. In normal circumstances (read: not during wartime), most mecha don’t dread going into heat.

Ratchet’s been in heat twice before this. Wheeljack won his first heat-battle, and that heat did result in a sparkling. I picked one of the Dinobots because in G1, he and Wheeljack did create them together, so why not? Ratchet’s second heat came at a really bad place and time (on the front lines of a long and failing defense of an Autobot position, while surrounded by the Decepticon army and having just discovered spies within their own ranks who would absolutely use this opportunity to harm Ratchet–pretty much the worst  _possible_  place and time really) and Ratchet was in prophylaxis exhaustion, so Optimus Prime took care of him. It was awkward as hell for both of them but far better than any other alternative. The Prime doesn’t have a heat, nor can they respond to another mech’s heat, so Optimus actually put the Matrix aside for the duration of Ratchet’s cycle. Desperate times call for desperate measures. My personal headcanon is that Ratchet and Optimus are amica endura, and Optimus wasn’t going to let the heat coding endanger his amica.

Drift had his first heat in the Dead End. Gasket and the others protected him as best they could, but fragging a mech in heat is a highly sought-after thing, and Drift agreed with them that this was an opportunity to make some serious shanix. Still, while he expected it to be pretty comparable to any other encounter he’d had as a buymech, Drift found out it was quite a bit different. The intense demands heat puts on the frame, along with his state of chronic near-starvation, meant that it was very physically uncomfortable and taxing. Gasket’s crew gave him circuit-boosters to keep his energy up during the process. Also, it was much rougher on Drift emotionally than he thought it would be, despite the others giving him Syk throughout because one of the effects of Syk is that it disrupts a mech’s EM field enough that they can’t imprint. They did that so he wouldn’t have to deal with the instinctive disgust that comes from anyone but an imprinted mate touching him. It was tough, but doable, and it meant that the whole group had enough fuel for a while. But it wasn't something he really ever wanted to do again.

Drift has also had two heats when he was with the Decepticons. Every time he went into heat with the Decepticons, it was because he’d hit the point of prophylaxis exhaustion. He was better fueled for those heats, but there was no Syk or speeders to buffer him from the emotional trauma of the Decepticon way of dealing with it. And the Decepticon method of bypassing stupor didn’t help much, either (more on that below).

Drift has never fought for a receptive mech, either. Whenever he sensed or heard about a mech in his command going into heat, he locked himself in his quarters and didn't come out until it was over unless it was completely impossible for him to do so, and even then, he made damn sure he didn’t go anywhere near them until their heat was over. That's how he learned to function with his vents sealed and his EM readers off.

All of this is why Drift’s coding is so incredibly glitched. Drift has never been able to imprint or have one single mate during any of his heats, and not only does he have a history with coding-disrupting illegal drugs, he’s been overusing the prophylaxis meds for a very long time. He’s  _never_ had a normal heat and his frame and coding don’t know how to do it. It’s also why his and Ratchet’s fields continue to react so strongly to each other even after their heats are over. When Drift was finally able to imprint on Ratchet during Ratchet’s receptive phase, he imprinted  _hard._ Immediately imprinting again on Ratchet during his own receptive heat meant that already-strong imprinting was doubly reinforced. Combine that with his glitched coding that means that his field doesn’t know how to “let go” after the purpose of the imprinting is fulfilled, and it all adds up to this: his and Ratchet’s fields will react like that for the foreseeable future, possibly permanently. (It’s okay, though–after they get used to it, they actually like it a lot. *wink*)

Stupor is also part of the heat cycle. After the receptive mech’s gestation chamber is filled with reproductive nanites, the heat coding shuts them down. This is to protect a potential sparkling. While not every heat cycle results in mechpreg, that’s obviously the goal, and a newly-made protospark is a very fragile thing indeed. The coding wants the carrier to be still and quiet and let that little thing get some growth in before they start moving around. Temperature fluctuations can damage a new sparkling, especially getting too cold. Engex or bad fuel can damage it. The physical agitation of interfacing can damage it and the surge of charge from an overload is especially dangerous, whether it’s the carrier overloading or their partner, and can short out the delicate electronics of a developing processor. Transformations absolutely  _will_  damage a protospark, if not kill it outright.

The coding disables certain protocols as a precaution to give a sparkling a week or two to grow and toughen up a little bit. That’s why stupor can be dangerous. A mech in stupor is pretty damn helpless and has several vital systems impaired or disabled. Just as there’s no way to turn off the heat coding, there’s no way to turn off the stupor, or reactivate the protocols it shuts down.

That being said, there are things that can be done to get a mech back up and physically functioning, especially if the health of the sparkling is not a concern. The Decepticons have this down to a fine science, but like everything else about messing with the heat cycle, it’s dangerous to do. They can’t reactivate the disabled protocols, but they’ve developed workarounds. The full Decepticon treatment returns the receptive mech to something like 90-95% functionality, with a 5-10% chance of catastrophic damage and/or dropping dead. And if there *is* a protospark, it’s almost certainly going to disrupt it to the point that it’s no longer viable.

Drift was  _pissed_  when he learned that Ambulon gave Ratchet something to counteract his stupor because he’s seen mecha have those bad reactions. However, Ambulon isn’t stupid and he is well aware of the risks, and he wasn’t going to risk Ratchet’s life no matter what orders he was given. Ambulon gave Ratchet the bare minimum to keep him upright and cognitively functional and skipped everything that would’ve enhanced his physical strength, because those are the most dangerous parts of the treatment. After it all, when Drift was recovered enough to be moved to a berth of his own, he confronted Ambulon about this and was informed of that. Ambulon does not get his aft kicked. 

Some mention is made about "what happened when Ratchet woke up" and Ultra Magnus going to the medbay. Ratchet regained consciousness very disoriented, and the first thing he understood was that he couldn't feel Drift's field anymore and Drift wasn't beside him (remember, he'd already been discharged from the medbay at this point). He went a little nuts and even just out of his stupor, Ratchet is  _strong._ Ultra Magnus was dispatched to give the medics some backup, but instead of restraining Ratchet, he ended up getting taken  _hostage_ by a very confused Ratchet who didn't understand anything of what was going on except that Drift had been close to death and now he was gone. Rodimus ordered Drift to the medbay because Ratchet wasn't believing anyone telling him that Drift was fine, and when Drift got there, Ratchet looked at him, felt his field, and promptly passed out, hitting his face on the corner of the nearest med berth on the way down and doing still more damage. Drift's guilt over all of this was practically visible from Cyberton. Ratchet has no memory of this later, and no one tells him about it until he's fully recovered and he and Drift are already courting. (I wanted to fit this scene into the story SO BAD but it just wouldn't fit ANYWHERE!!! *glares at muse*)

Someone asked me who’s moving in with who–Ratchet moved in with Drift because he’s got the nicer hab suite. Hello, en suite washracks, who’s gonna give that up?

I don’t know at what point Drift and Ratchet become conjunx endurae. Might think a little more about that once MTMTE’s issue with the conjunx ritus is published! But they do eventually do so. I think that’s a good note to finish this little list of extras on, don’t you?

Thanks again to all of you for reading this fic! <3 I’m iopele on tumblr for anyone who wants to follow me there. Catch y’all later!


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